


Short and Stout

by jerex



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Dungeons & Dragons - All Media Types, Forgotten Realms
Genre: Action/Adventure, Adventure, Bounty Hunters, Caves, Danger, Demons, Fantasy, Gen, Humor, Kidnapping, Magic, Major Original Character(s), Original Character(s), Original Fiction, Slow Build, Thrill of the Chase
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:14:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 30,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26426956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jerex/pseuds/jerex
Summary: Two bounty hunters by the name of Soren and Cecil answer the call of a bereaved father, only to find themselves drawn into a devilish scheme.
Kudos: 2





	1. The Plight of Marien Escoville

Marien Escoville listened to the rocking of the wagon as she sat beside the driver, the wind tousling her hair. She had raven-black locks, with almost equally dark skin. Her rich brown eyes were slightly wider apart than others and sparkled with an intelligence far beyond her years. There was a small gap in the front of her teeth when she smiled, but she had grown used to that as she loved to share a smile. She looked back into the bed of the wagon, smiling when regarded the thick store of furs and leathers. She leaned past the side of the wagon, seeing another two wagons behind, each similarly burdened with goods. The driver beside her gave the reins a light tug, driving the horses to a faster pace.

“It’s going to be such a good haul,” she said to the driver. He gave her a deep, affirming grunt.

“Aye lass, it is,” said the dwarf. He was a stout man, with a deep tan from his days of driving under the blazing sun. He freed one of his hands to stroke one of the braids in his beard which was capped with a jade bead. He had several braids, each capped with a different kind of bead that added a medley of color to the russet of his beard. “I’m so proud of yeh. Yehr father finally let yeh lead the caravan!”

“Thank you, Doran,” she said, beaming. “It took him much convincing, but I think he realized I am more than capable of doing this.”

“Of course yeh are, but the man has more concern than a mother goose!”

Marien chuckled, “He does, but for good reason. He is just looking out for me.”

“Aye, he is.” Doran gave the reins another tugged. “Still, yehr safety is paramount.”

“That is it, fair Doran!” called a man’s voice from their side. Marien glanced back while Doran gave an annoyed shake of his head.

He sat tall astride a mare, his face alight with confidence. He wore banded mail, the silvery steel polished to a high sheen. A shortsword hung on his left, and he wielded a spear in his left hand. “It is an honor to be protecting you, Lady Escoville.”

Marien stifled a laugh as she heard the not-so-subtle groan of Doran beside her. “Please, Arnold, it’s Marien. Lady Escoville is my mother.”

“Lady Marien then! Know that none shall threaten you whilst I ride beside you. Not that they would dare to anyways!” He raised his spear with his boast and looked to the other riders that followed the caravan.

“Thank you, Arnold. I count on your protection,” said Marien with a respectful tilt of her head. He gave her a bow, one that went as low as his armor would let him and drew back into formation.

“He’s a daft one, innit he,” said Doran. He phrased it as a question, but failed to make it sound like one.

Marien shook her head at Arnold’s antics, “He is enthusiastic.”

“He’s daft!” retorted Doran, “And he’s sweet on yeh.”

Marien let out a sigh at that. It was true, Arnold had taken a fascination with her. He regarded her as the prettiest woman he had ever laid eyes on, but Marien had a tough time believing him. She felt she was too thick in her waist and thighs and wished that she had grown as slim as her mother had. Arnold insisted that she was beautiful, but whenever she went to social settings, she felt insecure as she saw the other women adorned in their gowns.

She swept strands of her hair from her face, frowning as she thought how crazy it must look with the wind. They still had some time before the caravan pulled into town, and Marien hoped she would be able to straighten up her appearance. It was imperative, as a representative of her father’s business, that she looked her best when she met with their contact.

“How much longer do you think we have until we reach the town?” asked Marien.

“I’m thinkin’ two, maybe three days tops. We made good strides on the first day and even though it’s the wind’s been against us, we’ve made good progress. Don’t worry lass, we’ll get there on time.”

Marien nodded, confident that they would maintain the punctuality that had become associated with her father’s business. Reputation was everything.

Marien was dazed. She tasted a mixture of dirt and blood in her mouth. Screams and shouts echoed around her. She tried to push herself from the ground but felt a sharp pain in her side, and the strength was stolen from her arms.

“D-Doran…? Doran?” she called out weakly, turning herself on the ground. Their wagon had been thrown violently from the road, and she saw one of the horses laying on the ground a short distance away from her. Its neck was contorted violently, and its black eyes stared blankly, its tongue lolling from its mouth. A pained groan pulled her attention to the side, and she saw Doran against the wagon, a large splintered plank piercing through his torso. Blood dripped from the tip and there was a dark stain underneath the dwarf.

“Doran,” called Marien, her voice breaking with tears. His gaze slowly made its way to her, sparking lightly as he said, “Lass…” he reached his hand out to her, but before it even made its way halfway up, it slumped to his side, and his head lolled to his right. Marien felt burning in her eyes as her tears fell, and with a deep steadying breath and incredible effort, she pushed herself from the ground. 

Her face turned to horrid shock as she saw the other two wagons. One was splintered almost in half, the furs scattered about with the drivers both pitched to the ground in grotesque forms. Several of the house guards that had accompanied them laid upon the ground, their simple armor in ruins as dark stains in the dirt spread beneath them. Marien took a step forward, and almost fell to the ground as she felt pain in her side radiate throughout her body. She tenderly touched it and almost fainted as she felt a sharp shock of pain course through her. It arced through her body, stealing the strength from her limbs. She leaned heavily against the overturned wagon, sliding back to the ground.

_We’re going to die._

She was certain. She began hyperventilating. The sound of harsh fighting rang through the evening air, accompanied by the braying of horses. She sat against the destroyed wagon, frozen in shock and pain. A heavy thud beside her pulled her gaze. She saw a man, his face covered in blood and his banded mail rent and punctured.

“M… Marien… Lady… Marien…” he said, his eyes glassy.

Marien felt her lips trembling as she watched Arnold reach out to her, before an axe sunk into his back one, two, three times, with each strike punctuated by a sickening cracking noise.

“Round up the ones that you can!” shouted out a voice. Several steps made her way to her, and her fear returned. She tried to climb to her feet but the sharp pain in her side stole her attempt and sunk her back to the ground. A man strode before her, before kneeling before her on one knee. He leaned towards her, his hazel eyes searching. He wore a cuirass of plate mail, but his arms remained exposed. They were hard, etched with thick muscle and a long scar on his left arm made its way from his elbow to his wrist. His face was covered in stubble and blood, but Marien could make out tan skin beneath it. He set his axe, still covered in Arnold’s blood, on the ground beside him.

“Marien?” he asked, his voice almost familiar.

Her gaze flickered up in recognition of her name, and he nodded. He rose to his feet, picking up his axe with him, “We have who we need. Kill the rest.”

“ _NO!!!!”_ screamed Marien, drawing his gaze back to her. She violently rose to her feet. These were her father’s people. Her people! She would not let them get slaughtered like cattle. She pushed heavily towards the man.

She felt a sharp crack across her face and felt the haft of his axe strike against her injured side. She fell to the ground, darkness encroaching from all sides, her hope lost.

Marien awoke slowly. She felt herself being steadily rocked as her head throbbed. She felt a searing pain in her side, and when she tried to shift, she found her wrists manacled together. She wearily glanced around and saw that she was being transported in a caged cart. The man that had accosted her was leading her cart, his axe slung behind his back as he walked. While Marien could hear the jubilation of the bandits around her as they talked of their spoils, the man remained quiet, displaying a hardened discipline. His steady stride kept them moving at a hurried pace.

Two of the drivers that had survived were pulling the cart, trying not to fall too far behind the pace of the man. Whenever they would trip up or stumble, one of the nearby riders would smack them with the butt of their spear, shouting at them.

She continued looking around, and saw two more carts being pulled by people in dilapidated clothing, chains around their necks and legs. They held the furs and leathers of her caravan. The bandits either walked behind or ahead these wagons or were otherwise riding horses. Several more of the beasts trailed behind them, laden with sacks and other wares. 

The bandits themselves wore a hodgepodge of equipment, from thicken hides that wrapped their torsos to mail that was blackened by smoke and tar. Few of them had helms, but all of them were armed. Spears and axes were within easy reach, and many of the riders had bows slung upon their shoulders in addition to the spears they wielded.

As the drivers pulled the wagon, a sharp jolt jostled Marien, drawing a hiss of pain from her. The man looked back at her with a cursory glance and, after a moment, faced forward again, his pace never relenting. Marien could feel the tendrils of pain spiking through her again as they traveled, and the uneven path that they took through the woods drew more pain, nauseating her. Twice, she leaned as far as she could to the edge of the cart and retched, spitting up a mixture of puke and blood. Each time, the man glanced back at her, but otherwise said nothing.

Dusk turned to twilight, and Marien steadied as they arrived at an encampment, deep in the woods. Simple wooden palisades ringed the outside, with sentries standing at the openings to the inner encampment. The caravan walked in, and Marien peeked through her pained grimace to see an assortment of hide tents. The carts were taken to the center of the encampment where a large fire burned, and the chained slaves were escorted to a section with thick wooden stakes hammered into the ground. They were chained to the stakes, the links just long enough for them to lay upon the ground. Marien watched as some of the members of the camp delivered a bowl of what looked like porridge to the slaves and watched as they devoured the meal.

Her cart was pulled beside a much larger tent, escorted by the man personally. She was parked next to the tent and heard a latching noise. A guard came over and delivered a bowl of porridge with a waterskin. The sight and smell of the food so near provoked sickness again, and she retched and hurled against the side of the tent. The blood had lessened in her spittle, but her pain had not, and she felt it every time she heaved. Her head beat in time with her heart against the pain as she tried to steady her breathing.

The man had stepped into the tent, and returned, adorned in a simple linen shirt. He had cleaned his face after the encounter, and now it seemed that he had finished cleaning himself off, with no evidence of the battle that had taken place. He approached her cart, leaning in close as his eyes searched her. His features reminded Marien of several of the suitors that had come to call in her town, but his face lacked any of the kindness they tended to have while they spoke.

“Marien Escoville,” he said. She tilted her head up weakly, trying not to be sick again.

His voice was so similar to her suitors as well, the same authority and confidence that the aristocrats tended to have.

“Good. It would have been a waste to have killed so many only to have the wrong person.”

Marien could feel the nausea building up inside of her again as she felt her tears welling in her eyes. “Wha… What?”

He stared at her, his hazel eyes not blinking once as he looked her up and down. His gaze landed on her side, and she traced his concern down to her side, becoming fearful as she saw the dark stain in her dress.

He rose to his feet. He glanced at the bowl. “Eat.”

Marien shook her head, the action causing her to retch. She thankfully didn’t get sick, but as she turned to face the man again, he had left.

She felt herself trembling as she wondered what was going to happen. She had only seen two of the drivers from the caravan amongst the people that had been escorted to the camp.

_Doran._

She began to cry, which quickly devolved into sobbing. She choked as she felt the nausea rising from the pain but she could not control her tears. 

She had known Doran all of her life, the dwarf’s rugged exterior hiding a deep enthusiastic nature. The dwarf had an extensive collection of recipes, from some of the most wild places of the world. He had indulged her curiosity as a child with a new dish every week, goading her to try things she otherwise would have never dared. He poked her to think of where the dish came from, and through that she had learned about faraway places that she, as a merchant’s daughter, would never have even thought about.

She cried, with each sob sending another arc of pain through her. Her lips were dry, and she could feel them splitting in the middle. Everytime she retched, her mouth felt like sandpaper and the bile caught in her throat, exacerbating it. She reached for the waterskin, and unstoppered it. She sniffed it. Not able to sense anything, she took a cursory drink, which became a long draft as she realized it was water. She coughed as she drank, the liquid rough against her parched throat. She felt her nausea abating and looked down to the bowl. The porridge had begun to set, but she lifted the spoon and nibbled at it. It was a plain gruel, with hints of honey in it. She spooned a bit more of it in her mouth, stopping only once she felt herself growing sick again.

Marien curled up the best she could in the cart, tucking her knees in her dress. The chill of the night was coming in. She cried herself to sleep.

The next morning, the pain in her side woke her. She had shifted as she slept, and a sudden twinge woke her with a start, causing her to twist her body. The shock of pain caused her to shout out. One of the guards looked her way but didn’t respond to it. Breathing heavily, she shifted, trying to get his attention.

The man from before strode out of his tent, reaching to the sky as he stretched. He noticed her actions and walked over to her.

“I need… I need to relieve myself…” she said to him softly, her cheeks flaming with embarrassment. He nodded and called to one of the guards.

“She needs to go. Take her.”

“Aye, sir.” The man unlocked the door to her cage, and the guard grabbed the chains of her manacles, pulling her roughly from the cart. She coughed and let out a cry of pain as she was pulled, but neither of them said anything. He escorted her to a small location outside of the encampment, roughly two hundred feet. Marien felt her nose curl as she smelled the stench of the latrine, and the guard pushed her forward.

“Go.”

She looked to the mess and then back to him. “May.. may I have some privacy?”

The guard just tilted his head, annoyed. He drummed his fingers on the haft of his spear. 

Marien felt her face flame as she went, trying to avoid the guard’s face. Once she was finished, the guard grabbed her manacles again and pulled her back to the encampment. He doused her hands with water from a skin and walked her back to her cage. Marien climbed in, and he immediately shut it, turning the key in the latch and calling to the man.

“I've locked her back up, Arc.”

The man poked his head around the edge of the tent, scowling at the guard. “Off with you, then.”

The guard shrugged and returned to his post.

“Arc… Is that your name? Arc?” asked Marien.

Arc started at her, then let his gaze trail to the guard who was watching. The guard looked frightened and scurried off.

Arc turned back to Marien, searched her up and down again, and walked off. She heard the encampment waking up, and the sounds of cutlery against bowls filled the tent to her left. She could hear orders being barked out. After a few minutes, a guard dropped off a bowl filled with more porridge and a waterskin. He left her without a word. Marien looked to the poor meal. Her shoulders were bowed with anguish and her side ached, but she reached for the spoon.

Days turned to a week, and the only thing Marien had learned was that the bandit leader’s name was Arc. She heard him speaking to several of his men, but all she gleaned was that his authority was not to be questioned. The same guard from before came twice a day to check whether she needed to relieve herself, and even he was tight-lipped. She saw a shadow around one of his eyes, but when she asked about it, he made no comment. 

This evening, several of the guards had escorted one of the drivers to Arc’ tent. He looked worse for wear, his face sunken and gaunt. He wore the same clothes that he had been wearing on the day of the assault. It was covered with stains and grime. When Marien locked eyes with him, though, she saw simmering resolve deep within him. Arc exited his tent, his axe slung across his back.

“You are one of the Escoville drivers?” Arc’s voice was barely more than a whisper. Marien had to strain to make out what he was saying.

“Aye.”

“You recognize her?” asked Arc, pointing to Marien. The driver nodded stiffly.

“Good. You will be given a horse and escorted by two of my men. Deliver this to Escoville.” Arc held out a scroll, bound with wax. The driver looked at it and shook his head.

“He won’t pay a ransom.”

“That is for him to decide. You are to go straight to him and deliver the message. That is all. If you try to lose my men, or contact anyone else, they will kill you.”

“And if I refuse?”

“I will kill you where you stand and get the other driver. You have a family. He does not. You have a better understanding of what is at stake.”

The driver’s face grew stricken.

“Deliver the message,” reiterated Arc. He placed the scroll in the driver’s hand, which curled around it. He glanced to Marien with an apologetic look and walked off, his shoulders bowed.

“He is right,” said Marien, drawing Arc’s gaze. “My father won’t pay any ransom you set for me.”

Arc blinked with a reticent look upon his face and then returned to his tent.

Marien slid back to a sitting position. While her father was successful in his business, she doubted that he had the money for a ransom.

Marien prayed and hoped that her father would find a way to set her free.

The week turned to several weeks, but to Marien, time seemed to be melding together. She was restricted and locked in her cage all day except for when she needed to relieve herself. She rarely had anyone to talk to, and the isolation was distressing her. She resorted to talking with herself but she found that her thoughts would spiral in circles and plunge her deeper into depression. 

She started scratching her nails against the wooden surface of the cart, making marks for each day she thought passed. Some days, however, she would forget to make a mark, and other days she would take two or three naps, and her sense of time would become even more distorted. Whenever Arc or a guard would pass by she would desperately try to get them to converse with her, even if it was only for a little while. They would ignore her pleas though, and she would be left alone. The desolation and solitude was driving her crazy.

In addition to her loneliness, her side still pained her. Whenever she would stretch or slightly twist her torso, she could feel the webs of pain climb up her side. If she accidentally struck her side or contorted too much, she would be consumed by an all-encompassing agony, and curl up until the pain subsided.

They continued serving the porridge to the prisoners. She spooned some of it into her mouth, grimacing at the taste. She ate, shivering now and again. After she was finished, she nibbled on the bread but when she found it too hard to eat she dropped it. She heard a scurrying noise and traced it to the bottom of her cart. She watched as a small squirrel worked its way into her cage. She took a piece of bread and placed it beside it. Its fur stood up as it froze, eyeing her with its beady black eyes. It ignored the bread and climbed around the cart, nibbling now and again on the wood. Marien laid on her good side and watched it until she dozed off.

The squirrel returned every day after that, and each time Marien saved a little tidbit of her meal to tempt it with. Eventually, it allowed her to pet it, and Marien would chatter away quietly with it while she did. It was an odd squirrel for sure, but Marien was deeply grateful for the company. 

“I wonder if my father found a way to come and save me,” she said to it idly one afternoon. It was munching on a piece of hard tack biscuit, its ears twitching whenever Marien stroked it. Marien would become desolate when it would run off, but thankfully it only disappeared for the briefest moments.

One evening, Marien watched as a guard dropped off her meal, this time a thin stew with a small piece of hard bread. He swatted off the squirrel, and when it came back to the edge of the camp, Marien saw him chuck a stone at it. It scurried off into the woods, and she knew she would never see it again.

“I’m cold…” she said.

The guard paused for the briefest moment and then walked away. Marien sniffed and picked up the bowl, relishing the heat that emanated from the crude clay. After her meal, she waited for the squirrel, hoping that it would return. She left some of the soggy vegetables she had saved outside of her cart. She couldn’t handle being alone. Eventually she dozed off, her dreams fragmented with nightmares.

She woke again, bathed in starlight. It was deep in the night, and the only signs of activity was the fire that was burned in the center of the encampment. She felt something scratchy on her legs, and thought of the squirrel, but when she swept her legs she found a simple blanket resting on her. She unfolded it and wrapped herself in it. Despite the rough texture of the cloth, she was grateful for something to ward off the chill. She curled beneath it and tried to fall asleep again, when she was roused by activity coming from the front of the encampment.

Marien peeked out from beneath the blanket and saw that a small figure was being escorted through the camp. He was bound by his wrists with manacles, and he had a rope around his neck as well, leashing him to the guard. Marien squinted at him, trying to see him in the dying light. He was a halfling with shoulder length brown hair. Several braids hung on the right side of his head, revealing a pointed ear which had a single earring in it, and the rest of his hair hung loose. He wore finer clothing than most of the bandits, although it was soiled by travel. His feet were bare with a small scattering of hair upon the top of them. Unlike many of the slaves, he didn’t have bloodstains on him.

_They must’ve surprised him._

He waited composed as the guards stood beside him. One guard held a traveler’s pack, while the other one held a spear to the halfling’s back. Arc stepped out of his tent, bare chested but with his axe in hand.

The guard spoke, “We found ‘im with a few others, but they bolted once they saw us.”

Arc looked over the halfling, who stared back at him. Unlike the other slaves, who usually held looks of deference or fear for Arc, the halfling looked rather bored.

“None stayed for him?” asked Arc quietly.

The guard shook his head, “We chased ‘em for a while, but they up and left without a second thought. We didn’t go too far into the woods after ‘em.”

“The curs,” said the halfling. “To think, we shared such a grand couple of nights together, just for them to leave me, just like that!”

“You didn’t flee,” said Arc simply.

“The curse of my stature, good sir. Fleeing for me is but a brisk jog for such long-legged folk such as yourselves. Had my pony not been roped to my companion’s, I would have been more than capable of securing my freedom. Alas, it was not in the cards.”

Arc knelt down before the halfling, his gaze piercing into the halfling’s face. The halfling stared back at him, inquisitive.

“You are unafraid.”

“He was like that when we roped him,” stated the guard. “He just stood there and didn’t make no fuss.”

“Bandits rarely take hostages,” replied the halfling simply. “When I saw the manacles I knew that I would at least get to plead my case to the leader,”

Arc rose, “What makes you think he wasn’t the leader?”

“Oh surely I would hope not! It would be a terrible outing indeed if he was the mind behind the operation,” retorted the halfling, bringing a jeer from the other guards.

The guard slapped the back of his head.

“Now I say! This is exactly what I mean! So heavy-handed, it’s no wonder you’re merely the errand boy.”

That earned him another thwack from the guard. Arc looked to the pack, “What did he have?”

“Just another set of clothes, some rations, and some camping supplies,” replied the guard. “Oh and this.” He pulled a silver flute from his belt. He passed it to Arc, who inspected it thoroughly.

“A performer?”

“Why, yes I am,” said the halfling.

“I wasn’t speaking to you,” said Arc curtly.

“A grave mistake, surely. I am an excellent conversationalist, and you seemed quite a bit brighter than your men here. I was under the impression that you, at least, had a bit of sense.”

Arc turned his gaze to the halfling with a dangerous glint in his eyes, but if the halfling noticed or even cared, he didn’t show it.

“Listening to your men, I understand why they find themselves bored all the time. I mean, I took one look at this place and hoped that maybe I wouldn’t be here for too long.”

“I could arrange that,” said Arc, his knuckles whitening around the haft of his axe.

“I’m certain that you could, but as you haven’t and, as I doubt you will, why not allow me to brighten up the place a bit?”

Marien was dumbfounded.

“You are aware that you are our prisoner?”

“Keenly,” said the halfling, holding up his manacles.

“We could force you to play, if we were so inclined.”

“And yet again, you most likely will not.”

Arc grabbed the halfling by the front of his shirt, drawing protest from him.

“Come now, you’ll ruin the fit!”

“You assume much.”

The halfling looked petulant, “And I know quite a bit more. Now set me down, and we can get to talking about the terms of my release.”

Arc did set him down, his eyes for the first time revealing hints of confusion. “Set him beside her. I’ll make my decision in the morning.”

The guard tugged the halfling, almost dragging him away from the tent. They hammered a stake in the ground beside Marien’s cart and chained him to it. Before the guards left however, the halfling called out, “Sir!”

“What are you wantin’?”

“Could you, perhaps, leave my flute? I will grow rather restless without it, and I would loathe to miss even an evening of practice,” said the halfling.

The guard blinked at him, unable to figure out what to make of him.

“Do not fret. I shall play silently so as to not disturb His Highness,” said the halfling, nodding towards Arc’s tent. That drew a chuckle from the guard, and to Marien’s surprise, he left the flute at the halfling’s feet. “You wake ‘im and ‘e’ll most likely kill you.”

“Want to wager on that?” asked the halfling, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Double rations says that I play and he leaves me be.”

“What’ll I get if I win?”

“Why, I hadn’t thought of that. Rarely do I lose such wagers. Peculiar. Hmm…” the halfling pursed his lips, then lightly snapped his fingers, “Well then, if that becomes the case, you can keep my flute and any of my belongings. You will have trouble fitting in my clothes, but perhaps you could use them as a bandana or head-scarf.”

The guard chuckled at that, “What’s your name?”

The halfling grinned wide, “Hallister. At your service.” He bowed his head and the guard walked off, shaking his head.

Marien was dumbfounded. She watched the halfling, who kept peering out through the camp, pensive. He picked up his flute and played a light melody. Marien watched and listened to him, the music a much welcome change.

The next morning found the halfling sitting amongst the guards while they ate breakfast. He played a soothing melody on his flute as they ate, punctuated with a jape when he finished. The men would laugh and some of them joined in the teasing. Hallister was still manacled, but they had removed the leash from him, and he was free to wander around the camp while he played.

Marien couldn’t believe it. The guards seemed more than content to let him just walk about. Many of them mocked the halfling as he walked about, but he jabbed back with a repartee of his own. When the meals were ready for the prisoners, Hallister stood patiently beside them and helped dish out the meals. As he pulled up to Marien’s cage, he dropped the bowl down and pulled a waterskin out for her.

“Chet,” he said to the guard, “Why is she separated so?”

The guard arched his eyebrow, “ ‘Cuz Arc said to.”

Hallister clicked his tongue, “Look at her, my man! She’s covered in grim. She needs to be allowed to bathe. Why, I wouldn’t hold my worst enemy in such a state.” He paused, furling his brow, “Well, perhaps the bastard that rode off with my pony. He would deserve such treatment.”

Chet chuckled, “She ain’t allowed to wash. It’d be easier to track her if she escaped.”

Hallister wrinkled his nose at her as Chet turned away. He reached into his pocket and traded her waterskin for his.

“Come Hallister! We have more!” called the guard.

“Right, we wouldn’t want the gruel to go bad,” retorted Hallister sardonically. Marien crawled to the edge of her cage as the halfling walked away, her eyes pleading for him to stay. He failed to turn around though, walking back to the mess tent to retrieve more bowls.

Marien sat up, feeling stiff. Her side ached less today, but the absence of her squirrely companion tugged at her heart. Her loneliness reminded her of Doran, and she sniffed. As she unstoppered the waterskin, her nose wrinkled as she smelled the fermented grapes.

_Wine?_

She took a cautious gulp, and then drank hungrily as she tasted the wine on her tongue. The small luxury caused her eyes to tear up, and she felt a deep appreciation for the halfling. She watched as he delivered the bowls, inserting an occasional quip to Chet as they walked about.

Arc stepped from his tent. He stretched one more, and his gaze locked on the sounds of laughter. On Hallister. He strode to the halfling, who gave him a sweeping bow when he saw him.

“What is he doing?” asked Arc.

“Er— helpin’ with meal time. I’ve been escortin’ him around.”

“And I daresay that I misjudged you, Chet. You do have such a curious mind,” said Hallister.

“Are you a fool?”

“No, but I can play the part well if that’s what you wish, although I doubt a fool at meal time is the most appropriate form of entertainment,” responded Hallister. Arc set his burning gaze upon the halfling.

“I understand now! You’re upset that I did not perform for your meal. Come, come I shall play you a melody so gracious,” said Hallister, aloof.

Chet looked torn between fear and amusement as he watched the halfling, and Marien hadn’t moved her spoon from her mouth as she watched on. She glanced around and saw her face mirrored in many of the other prisoners. Arc seemed to notice it too.

Arc struck Hallister with a hard backhand, causing him to spin about and drop the remaining bowls he had.

Grinning, Hallister stepped to his feet, “An initiation hit, I presume. You can’t have new members of your camp without them proving their worth, I suppose.” He rose back to his feet, brushing the dirt from his face. His left cheek was red, but he still maintained his aloof demeanor.

Arc’s mouth twitched, and he returned to his tent. Chet looked over Hallister, but the halfling was already retrieving the bowls from the dirt and walking back to the mess tent.

“Come now, Chet! I’m sure you’ll receive much worse if His Highness sees me walking about without you close behind.”

There was a marked change in the temperament of the camp over the course of the next week. Hallister had managed to enmesh himself in the eyes of the guards, and they rarely had a meal without the halfling playing a soothing tune or singing a bawdy song. Even the slaves seemed refreshed, as if the mere presence of Hallister had brightened their situation. It seemed that Arc had taken notice of the halfling’s influence and had demanded that he be chained to his stake.

“Aw come now, Arc. ‘e’s makin’ things less dull for us durin’ the day, what’s the ‘arm in ‘im waddlin’ about?”

Several of his men mumurred in agreement, and Arc narrowed his eyes. His gaze dropped to Hallister, who had once again been brought before the man. Arc swatted at him again, tumbling him to the ground, but the halfling stood tall again after he picked himself up.

“What are you trying?”

“I’m trying to make you see that I am valuable to your cause. Your men were bored and restless when I got here, and now look! They tend to their tasks with confidence and competence, and all I ask is a nice tent to sleep in. That seems to be a rather good steal to me, and is that not the point of banditry?”

Arc eyed the halfling dangerously, “From prisoner to bandit musician?”

“Why not? I was always told to find the best of a bad situation. In truth, the life of the straight and narrow can be so tiring, with little to show for such diligence. The last time I dabbled in the outer fringes of society, I found myself captivated by the camradere. The open road, the thoughts of spoils, and maybe even the occasional farmer’s daughter tingles my sensibilities.”

More of the men nodded and chanted in agreement, with several of them patting Hallister on his back.

Arc watched him. “Your trial then.”

“I’m all ears.”

He pointed his axe at Marien, and she watched Hallister’s eyes travel to her.

“Her father has yet to send any response to my request. He is a wealthy merchant, yet he leaves his kin in chains instead of sending gold. If I do not receive a response in the next week, you will kill her.”

Marien felt herself grow cold, and watched a small flicker of concern in Hallister’s face, replaced almost immediately with his indifferent mask.

“Do I have to use an axe? That would be so brutal for such a young lass.”

Arc eyed him dangerously, “What would you have?”

“A small dagger if possible. Slip it between the third and fourth rib, and it’s a clean kill. Despite being a prisoner, she is still a lady, and if she is to die it should be with dignity. Not hacked apart like a swine.”

Hallister’s face stayed steady as he spoke. Marien felt the clutches of cold gripping tighter on her.

_I’m going to die._

“Very well. One week. If I do not receive an answer, she dies by your hand.”

Hallister nodded.

Hallister approached Marien the next day, her meal resting on a simple tray. He was still manacled, but no longer escorted by a guard. She stared out, not looking at the halfling as he pushed the bowl and waterskin through her bars. She eyed the bowl and pushed it back through the bars with her foot, watching as the contents spilled across the ground, seeping into the dirt. She similarly pushed away the waterskin. Hallister stood before her for a moment, before retrieving the bowl and skin, but she would not meet his gaze. She continued to stare off into the woods, forlorn.

Grief had overtaken her again, but this time it conjured no tears. Desolation had finally claimed Marien, so she sat, content to wait out her final days. She knew her father did not have the means for a ransom and knew that there was no chance for her to escape. She was watched day and night now, her manacles were replaced with new ones, and the latch on her cage was checked daily. She grudgingly walked to the latrine each morning and night, no longer complying with her escort. They had to drag her, and she would make them waste their time with her. 

By dusk, her stomach twisted painfully with hunger, and her throat felt rough with thirst. Still, she refused her meal and drink, instead staring out into the woods as she sat wrapped in the rough blanket. She slept not a wink, not wishing to waste the remaining hours of her life in slumber. The pain in her side rose throughout the evening and had returned almost full-force the next morning. Her eyes drooped as Hallister stopped by with her breakfast, but she did not succumb to slumber. She stoically pushed the bowl to the ground again and didn’t even touch the skin. Hallister leaned against the bars of her cage, but she still would not meet his gaze.

“She’s not eating,” she heard him say after the third day of her refusal, and another set of footsteps placed Arc before her gaze.

He stared into them, his hazel orbs devoid of any warmth.

“She’s given up.”

“If she wastes away before you get your answer, isn’t it all for naught?” asked Hallister.

Arc turned to him, “What does it matter? You’re to kill her if I don’t receive an answer either way.”

“I know that. I am just wondering what happens if that is no longer an option.”

Arc gave the halfling an appraising look, “We’ll find some other life for you to claim.”

Hallister shrugged at that, and waddled off, the chains of his manacles clinking against one another.

Marien curled into a ball, trying hard to ignore the grinding pain of hunger in her stomach. Her mouth felt as though it was filled with sand, and everytime she tried to lick her cracked lips, she felt a scratching sensation.

That evening, as dusk fell, she heard the sound of chains approaching her. Hallister sat beside her cage, leaning against the cart as he slumped to the ground.

“You know, I’ve been in this very same situation before. Captured, with nothing in sight and no recourse to be had. I’ve felt the bleakness that you currently face, with fate being out of reach. It weighs terribly on the soul.”

Marien didn’t answer.

“I understand that I appear to be your executioner. You may resent me, you most likely hate me. I can accept that. I would too, if some stranger offered to kill me to secure their own life. What I can’t accept, however, is your own desire to give up hope. Have you thought of the opportunities that might arise from this? Who’s to say that you don’t overpower me when I try to kill you, and you earn a place in the camp?”

Marien’s eyes flickered to him. His voice was tinged with grief and worry. He had taken to studying the stars above.

“It may not be what you planned for your life, but still, you would have your life. To do with however you please. I haven’t met a person that would be resigned to death even if there was no way out. Even criminals cry out against their fate when they face their execution, and you are no criminal. You are a lady. You do not deserve this suffering.”

Hallister let out a deep sigh and rose to his feet. He set a handful of berries inside her cage. They oozed juice that stained the wood, and in her intense hunger, they looked delectable. “I know what they serve here is hardly capable of being called food, but if you want your chance home, you need to eat something. Eat, so that you can overcome. Do not give up hope.”

He looked over her, his eyes rimmed with concern, and walked off, singing a song as he approached the feasting guards.

Marien pushed herself up with great effort. She watched him dance and sing for the men. He was just playing his part. He was grasping at the final straws that he could find in such a bleak situation. She realized that he didn’t want to kill her. Her eyes traveled down to the berries he had left. There was plenty of them. She scooped them up and shoved them in her mouth, tears falling down her face as the delicious juices quenched her thirst. She cried as she watched Hallister dance, knowing that he wanted her to live, despite him doing everything he could to secure his life.

His strength of soul baffled her.

Hallister continued to bring berries to her over the next few days. She ate them and felt odd. Her side no longer pained her, and while he had managed to smuggle more and more to her, she found both her hunger and thirst quenched in a way they hadn’t since her capture. Each meal of the berries brought her more and more hope. Her strength returned, and on the eve of the last day Arc was content to wait for an answer, she felt as though she could break free.

She watched the flickering fire as Hallister sang a song to the men, his face moving through several emotions as he sang the ballad:

_“Strong and stout was he,_

_he who wielded the weapons three._

_With dust and darkness familiar friends,_

_that traveled with him to world’s end._

_Not blight, not snow, not devilish designs,_

_could keep he from a single mind_

_To quench the fires in the souls,_

_of those who brought the night bell’s toll_

_Luxaurea, Luxaurea whispered thee,_

_those that knew of him to be_

_A staunch contender and a friend,_

_of those found at world’s end.”_

The guards chanted _“At world’s end!”_ in refrain with Hallister as he danced around, each raising their mugs with him. Marien whispered along with him as she laid in the cart. She tried to push against the bars for the first time, heaving as hard as she could and she felt the wooden dowel bow before her. A sense of excitement flowed through her. Should she escape now? It seemed almost perfect. The guard’s were lax this evening, with her usual watcher seated amongst the crew singing. The moon was new, and the sky was overcast. She felt she could break free into the woods, perhaps sneak past a sentry.

She looked to Hallister, the little halfling finally sitting and eating his meal as the men sang a much less melodious version of the song. He poked at his meal, his apprehension obvious to her, but oblivious to everyone else. As the fire died down, she thought it would be an opportune time to leave, but just as she made the break the bars, she saw that Hallister was chained once more to his stake. Unlike the bars of her cart, the stake he was chained to was roughly four inches thick. Even if she had the strength to break him free, it would make too much noise. He would be her executioner, would kill her to secure his life, but she couldn’t find it in her to leave him. He had been kind to her, and had shown her an option she didn’t know she had. Marien sat against the bars, her mind swimming with thoughts.

Marien watched as the sun crept over the horizon the next morning. She had spent the entirety of the night trying to get Hallister’s attention, but the halfling slept through it. Exhaustion must have finally overtaken him. She watched as he was roused roughly. He held annoyance in his face, but quickly replaced his aloof mask. He gave her a cursory glance, and she saw the solemness in his eyes. The guards unchained him and he was brought before Arc’s tent. They waited as the man stepped out, his axe strapped to his back. He wore his cuirass today, the metal scarred and scratched from his battles.

“There has been no answer.”

“No, I daresay there hasn’t been,” said Hallister.

Arc nodded towards Marien. Her eyes were filled with fear.

Hallister looked befuddled, “Now?”

“Why not?”

“Why, I can count many reasons. It’s morning, and the day has just begun. It seems wildly inappropriate to kill such a lovely lass and marr the rest of the day. There’s chores to be done and meals to be had. Besides, who’s to say the messenger isn’t on their way here and they arrive with the ransom only to find that she has passed?”

“Then we will kill the messenger and keep the gold,” stated Arc simply. The other men nodded in accord with him.

Hallister found himself nod in agreement, “Still, if I am going to be the one, then I shall decide when to do it.” Arc’s eyes flashed with anger, but Hallister remained cool. “I am not saying that I am refusing to do it, but rather that I would like to choose when. Does a man not get to decide his own actions?”

The men agreed with Hallister. Arc glared at the halfling, “If she lives after dusk, both your lives will be forfeit.”

“Agreed. Now come, we have breakfast to make and the talk of murderous work makes a man hungry,” Hallister walked to the mess tent, followed by several guards. Some of them looked confusingly to Arc, but he had refocused his gaze on Marien. She saw the certainty in his eyes. She knew that he was going to kill her, regardless of whether or not he received the ransom. He appointed a guard to watch over her.

Marien cursed her indecisiveness. She shook the bars of her cage, drawing protests from the guard. She could have left in the wee hours of the morning, but her conscience had dictated that she try to find a way to help Hallister. Now, she was going to pay for her altruism.

She traced the sun’s travel across the sky, feeling utter dread as it approached its zenith and then began its descent. Hallister did not pay her a visit today, and she couldn’t blame him. He had to distance himself from her if he was going to go through with the act. Marien began contemplating how she was going to overpower him. Would he be good at fighting? Or was he just an entertainer? She felt sick as she thought about killing him but he was right: she wanted to live.

Afternoon swiftly became evening, the sky darkening much quicker than she had anticipated, and the fated hour approached. Her mouth dried, and she felt herself trembling. Hallister was seated by the fire in the center of the camp. He had sung no songs today, and with a blank expression, he stared into the fire.

Marien felt the desperation settling inside of her, and she began breathing rapidly as her heart hammered in her chest. Arc stepped from his tent, his axe in hand.

“It’s time,” he called out.

All the men rose, and Hallister set his gaze upon him. It was devoid of his usual composure, instead filled with a derisiveness. Arc approached Marien’s cart, but a shout halted his steps.

“Oi, boss! There’s some lad here!”

_Could it be?_

Arc turned his head slowly. Marien traced his gaze and her eyes fell upon a short figure. He wore a dark brown wide brim hat with a long coat that swept past his thighs. A pack rested on his back, and Marien could make out the hilt of some sort of weapon poking out from his coat.

“Who are you?” asked Arc, hoisting his axe up before him.

The figure raised his head, the action raising his hat, revealing a hardened visage with piercing green eyes. They flickered around the encampment, taking stock of the guards, before settling on Marien in the cage. They smoothly shifted back to Arc, who in turn was taking measure of him.

“I reckon you’re the one that sent this,” said the figure, holding up a scroll. The wax was still sealed. His voice was steady.

Arc gnashed his teeth.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” said the figure. His voice was stern and even, with hints of an accent that Marien couldn’t place but it was similar to the accent of Arc. Marien peeked to Hallister, who was still watching the fire. He looked to her and a small grin crossed his face.

“Y’know, if you wanted a more prompt reply, maybe you shouldn’t have hidden so deep in the damned woods,” said the figure, stowing the scroll in his coat. As his coat moved, Marien saw a glint of silvery steel on his torso.

Arc looked to his men, and Marien saw they were ready to fight.

“Tell you what, just give me the girl, and I won't leave you like the other camps I found,” finished the figure. Several of the men looked confused. Arc let out a shout, and his men sprung into the fight.

The figure dropped his hand to his side, crouching into a battle stance. He drew not the weapon that poked out from his side, but a strange, peculiar object from within his coat. It had a wooden handle and faded gold tube attached to it. One of the bandits was sprinting for him, and was almost within reach with his spear. The figure pulled down a lever on the back of his weapon and pointed it at the oncoming threat.

A roar echoed through the night, the bandit blasted back as a mini-explosion rent the evening air. The other bandits drew up short, their eyes widening at the strange contraption. The tube was smoking, and their comrade had a large hole deep in his abdomen. The figure drew the lever back again and sighted the next bandit, blasting him away with another explosion.

Chaos ensued. Some of the bandits continued their charge at the figure, while others retreated from him, fleeing from the odd weapon. One bandit took a mighty swing with his axe, cleaving the air above the figure as he rolled out of reach. As he finished his roll, he sighted the bandi, and fired off another explosion, followed by another one. Marien heard the sound of metal clattering to the ground as she saw casings tumble to the ground. The figure rose to his feet and swiftly gathered distance from the pursuing throng. His hat fell away, revealing dark brown hair that fell past his pointed ears.

_A halfling?!_

She looked to Hallister but saw that he had vanished in the chaos. Arc charged after the halfling, who deftly dodged his wild strikes. He still held his own weapon, but after a particularly close miss, he did a backhand spring to get some distance. After he landed, he shoved metal cartridges into his weapon and snapped it shut with a flick of his hand. His left hand cocked the lever again, and he tried to find sight on Arc, but instead blasted the nearest bandit. His hands worked in tandem, his left resetting the lever while his right controlled the explosions. Bandits fell around him, and even the ones that were streaming in from around the encampment were falling to his barrage.

Arc drew back, his face losing all semblance of discipline. He looked to Marien, and a vicious look came about him. He sprinted to her cart. She crawled to the back, slamming her shoulder against the bars to break them. She felt them splinter, but just as she was about to turn to push through, his axe sheared off a side of the cart and he reached in. His iron grasp locked around her leg, and she was pulled from the back of the cage. She slammed her other foot into his face, but he wouldn’t relent.

She fought, grasping the bars and clawing at the bottom of the cage as he tried to pull her out. When her grasp broke, she clawed at his face but he backhanded her, dazing her for a moment. Marien shook her head and saw his arm raised high in the air, but he flinched. Arc shot a glance behind him.

Hallister was standing behind him, his flute held aloft. He had a smug look on his face. His appearance had changed. His clothes were no longer soiled, instead replaced with crimson attire. His torso was covered in glittering mail, and a dark metal staff hung from his back.

“ _YOU!_ ”

“Aye, your Highness.”

Arc released Marien, and stepped forward, only to have his leg buckle beneath him. He looked up at Hallister, who was loading a small dart into his flute.

Arc defiantly roared at him, to which Hallister responded with a small _thwoop_ as he blew into his flute. A small dart spiraled through the air and embedded itself in his neck, and Arc crumpled to the dirt, his words slurring and stuttering.

Behind them, the other halfling was quickly cleaning up the remaining bandits, his hands a flurry of action as explosions rang through the night. Eventually, the remaining bandits either fell or fled, leaving them in a camp filled with bodies. Metal casings were scattered around him on the ground. He waited, listening for any signs of activity. Content that all was clear, he replaced his weapon inside his coat.

The halfling strode over to Arc and clapped manacles upon his wrists. Hallister helped Marien to her feet and pulled forth a small set of picks from his belt. He worked them in the lock for a bit and with a click, the manacles fell free.

“Lady Marien Escoville, yes?” asked the halfling.

Marien nodded, bewildered.

“Good. This is the fourth camp I’ve had to deal with, and I was growing tired of the wanton violence.” The halfling went to retrieve his hat, dusting it off before setting it back on his head.

“Who… Who are you?”

His emerald orbs locked onto hers, and a small grin made its way across his face as he looked to Hallister, “The name’s Cecil. We’re the Orthys brothers. We came to get you.”

Marien stared at the two halflings in disbelief, her legs trembling. They barely crested over three feet tall, and yet Cecil had dispatched the bandit camp with relative ease. Hallister and his brother spoke to one another in a strange dialect as they pulled a caged cart similar to the one that Marien had been imprisoned in. With a mighty effort, they lifted Arc into the cart and latched it shut after securing each of his limbs to one of the corner beams.

“Who… who sent you?” asked Marien, regaining her voice after her surprise abated. Cecil turned his emerald gaze onto her and drew forth the scroll that Arc had sent her father. He passed it to her, the wax still pristine and untouched.

Marien broke the seal and unfurled it. It was a brief missive, requesting a staggering amount of gold in exchange for her delivery to a nearby town. Nothing about her location was detailed, and even the location of her dropoff was to be determined after the gold was delivered.

She found her gaze settle upon Cecil, who was testing the restraints they had put upon Arc.

“Is that his axe?” he asked Hallister, nodding his head to the discarded weapon. Hallister picked it up, leaving the head rocking against the ground as he brushed the dirt off the top of the haft.

“Yep, _Stonesbane._ Etched right here in platinum,” responded Hallister, his eyes making their way to the slumbering Arc. “An exquisite weapon indeed, the Lamaroths will be thrilled to have it returned.”  
“That’s another three hundred platinum if I recall correctly,” said Cecil idly, “plus he’s still alive, so that’ll be good for wagering. Did you manage to find his signet ring?”

“What, you think I had access to his tent?” asked Hallister in disbelief. “I barely managed to get the damned manacles off before you got here.”

Cecil looked taken aback, “S’no wonder I had to wait so long for your reply. What, that silver tongue of yours didn’t work it’s magic?”

Hallister shook his head, letting out an exasperated sigh, “The man was paranoid and perceptive. I shudder to think what would have happened if he recognized me.”

Marien shook her head, trying desperately to make sense of everything, “ _Who are you two?!”_

Cecil turned a befuddled look onto her as Hallister stalked off to Arc’s tent. He walked towards her, and Marien could hear the sounds of swinging mail and other metallic objects from beneath his coat, “Lady, we were sent to come get you.”

“How? My father could never have afforded private guards.”

“That he couldn’t. Couldn’t even round up an interested party. Turns out a lot of his friends weren’t too flustered by your abduction,” replied Cecil. “O’course my brother and I aren’t really private guards. Just some interested folk, aimin’ to do some good.”

Cecil thumbed over to Arc.

“I don’t get it!” Marien was beside herself.

Cecil shrugged, “That really isn’t my concern, ma’am, and in all honesty, it shouldn’t be yours either. You get to go home, and your father is gonna be happy. Isn’t that all that matters?”

“But why him?” she asked. She felt a wellspring of hate for the man and felt herself grinding her teeth.

“Like I said, it really ain’t your concern.”

“Come now, Cecil, stop being cryptic! The lady has suffered enough for a lifetime I would think,” said Hallister, stepping to his brother’s side and swatting his shoulder. He tossed a small piece of metal up into the air, which Cecil deftly caught and examined. He nodded.

“That’s it. Another hundred platinum there,” he said. He deposited the ring into a pouch on his belt.

“Hallister, why? Who are you two?” asked Marien, her voice a desperate plea.

“Well to start off, Lady Marien, my name isn’t Hallister. It’s Soren,” answered Soren calmly. He signaled for her to follow him to the fire, tossing a log into it as he sat down. Marien followed after him. Cecil stayed with the cart, pulling his odd weapon from his coat and running it over with a rag.

“You must forgive me for the deception, but in my field of trade, it is only prudent. As for who we are and why: we are hunters, so to speak. My brother has a zeal inside of him that thirsts to demolish evil wherever he may find it, and I find that I have a weakness for those oppressed and otherwise unable to help themselves in this harsh world.”

Marien hung on every word, rubbing her arms to ward away the chill. Soren threw another log into the fire and pitched the flames using the staff on his back. They grew higher and Marien nodded in appreciation.

“Your father was beyond desperation when we came upon him, practically begging every passerby in town that looked to have some semblance of martial skill. The problem was that he lacked the main driving component that most disinterested parties have for performing such a task: gold.”

Soren pulled a pipe from his belt. He sniffed the bowl and wrinkled his face at the smell. He emptied it by tapping the bottom of it against the side of his foot. He loaded it with pipeweed and, using a small burning ember from the fire, lit it and took a puff.

“When we first approached him, he was filled with disbelief. After all, my brother and I are shorter than some of your younger kin, and we were going to deliver you safely? Hardly a believable notion and yet we returned three separate times. By the third time, your father was beside himself with grief and accepted our offer. In his state, we didn’t press a price, but I assure you that we will collect our share in the future.”

Marien felt disappointed, but Soren smiled at her, “Come now, I’m not a monster. Having a place where we can stay if we so choose to return to your town is more than enough for such a simple task.”

He tapped the pipe against the side of his foot again, emptying some of the contents upon the ground.

“But why do you need him?” she asked, looking back to Arc.

“Tell me, Marien: Have you heard of the Bloodstone Lands?”

Marien shook her head.

“It is a bleak land to the northeast, with harsh winters and rugged summers. The lands are infested with goblinoids and giant-kin, and the people that live there know little in the ways of peace.”

Soren nodded to Arc. “That man is from those lands, which also happen to be me and my brother’s lands. His real name is Arcturus Lamaroth, and he is the elder son of the noble Lamaroth family. Years ago, he stole off with an important family heirloom and disappeared. We had heard of a bandit referring to himself as Arc Lamar, and upon seeing his writing in the scroll, we knew that we had found him at last.”

Soren emptied the rest of his pipe and rose to his feet, “We will be returning him home, ending the bandit threat in the region, returning you to your kin, and completing a task we have been working on for months. It is a resounding success, if you ask me.”

“But Hal- Soren, the scroll was sealed…” said Marien.

Soren smirked, “Indeed it was. A simple ruse, but one to inflame Arcturus even more. A resentful man so full of pride is an easy target to inflame."

Soren walked to Arcturus’ tent and pulled forth a thick fur. He gave it to Marien, and pulled a set of shoes from his brother’s pack. He passed those to her as well, and nodded.

“I hope you are ready to go home,” he said.

Marien nodded fervently and followed Soren back to his brother. He had managed to wrangle a nearby horse, calming it enough to attach it to the cart. Soren climbed atop the horse, and beckoned for Marien to join him. She had stopped though and was looking towards the remaining prisoners in the encampment. They watched her, some with hope, others with jealousy.

“What about them?” asked Marien, pointing towards them.

“Ah. Yes, of course, how foolish of me,” said Soren. He slid from the saddle and pulled the small tools from his belt. He worked them in the manacles and shortly afterwards, all of the prisoners were free. Some of them rubbed their wrists, their expressions a mixture of awe and confusion.

“You are free now,” he said, “And if my brother is to be trusted, which frankly is a given, then the lands around us are free from the threat of banditry. You may go home now.”

Soren returned to the cart, his brother lying upon the roof of the cage, his head resting against his pack, and his hat low over his eyes.

“Soren… how are they going to get home alone?” asked Marien. Soren was just about to crack the reins when he paused. He looked concernedly to Marien.

“That isn’t our problem,” said Cecil simply. Marien looked back to him, shocked.

“But Soren said—”

“Our job was to capture Arcturus and return you home. We don’t have the means to travel through the woods back to your town with another ten or so people with us.”

“Be reasonable,” barked Marien. They couldn’t just abandon these people to the woods.

“Cecil,” started Soren placatingly, “She has a point. Even with them having recuperated as such, I doubt there is a woodsman amongst them.”

“That’s more people to care for and more people to watch after. How do we know if they’re even of good weal?” asked Cecil, removing his hat from his face. His eyes burned with intensity.

“That isn’t our call to make,” said Soren, his arms crossed over his chest. Marien saw a burning resolve in his eyes, which she now noticed were mismatched. One was green like his brother’s, a deep emerald, while the other was a stark hazel.

“It is our call. We did the job, and we know what we gotta do,” retorted Cecil. “You’re just not keen on it because you spent so much time with them.”

“No thanks to you,” said Soren.

“Next time, make your directions more clear. Do you have any idea how large the woods are? I told you, I found three other encampments before I found you, and their occupants were much less keen to give directions.”

Soren’s mouth thinned to a line, “What did mother used to tell us?”

Cecil gnashed his teeth, “Don’t start with that, Soren.”

“What did she used to say, Cecil?”

He grumbled, “That we were gifted with the power to fight for a reason.”

“And what was that reason?”

“To help those that couldn’t help themselves. Yeah, yeah I know,” muttered Cecil.

“We have the power to help those who cannot. It is within us to use them,” said Soren. “Besides, I spent time with these people. Many of them just wish to return home.”

Cecil let out a long sigh, “I hate it when you bring up mother.”

“She would be proud of your decision.”

“Yeah, yeah. Oi!” shouted Cecil to the prisoners, who had been looking around dazed and disorganized, “Find what you can for the road. We leave in an hour!”

The prisoners looked shocked and unsure. Cecil jumped from the cart. “Go! Find stuff! There’s bound to be plenty.”

Marien watched as Cecil organized the remaining prisoners, and looked down to Soren seated before her, “Thank you.”

Soren bowed his head, “My lady, it was the proper thing to do.”


	2. Days of Introspective Respite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Riding on the success of their hunt, Soren and Cecil take a few days to recollect themselves. Their host gives them an opportunity for a new adventure, and the brothers find themselves drawn to the hunt.

“I’m so glad you’re okay!” shouted Darius Escoville as he wrapped Marien in a crushing embrace. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes, and he let out a grunt as his wife grabbed onto Marien with him. They held together for a long time, with Marien letting out soulful sobs.

“I didn’t think I would see you again…” said Marien, choking on her tears.

“You’re home now. That’s all that matters,” said Natasha Escoville. She stroked Marien’s hair, pulling stray debris from it. Her cheeks shone with the streak of the tears that had fallen upon seeing Marien.

Soren and Cecil watched the reunion, Soren with a glimmer in his eye, and Cecil with a contented grin on his face. 

“I cannot thank you enough,” said Darius, pulling from his daughter and walking before the two halflings. “I know I had my doubts, but I honestly couldn’t believe that you two would be able to get her back.” He looked down at them, but his eyes shone with reverence and appreciation.

“I understand you completely, good sir. The most unusual things can be wrapped inside a very deceiving package. Do not fret thought, for it was naught more than what we told you we would do,” said Soren, lowering himself into a deep, sweeping bow. Cecil tilted his head down and tapped the brim of his hat in acknowledgement.

Marien jumped from her mother to the two brothers and pulled them into a tight hug. Cecil cocked his eyebrow at Soren, who shrugged. She shook with a gracious sob, and Soren rubbed her back, “There, there child. You are home now.”

Cecil cleared his throat pointedly, and Marien pulled away, tear streaks clearing through some of the remaining grime from the road. She let out a short laugh as she wiped her face, “I’m sorry. You don’t need me sobbing all over you.”

“It’s an emotional moment,” said Soren, giving her an understanding smile.

Marien nodded, “What about them?” She pointed behind them.

They looked back to the prisoners they had escorted to the town. They stood behind the procession, their eyes jumping around nervous and unsure. They fidgeted and jumped at every wayward sound. Cecil slowly approached them.

“You’re all free to leave at any time,” called Cecil to them. Their collective gazes locked onto the halfling. “We don’t have anything else to give you.”

“Cecil,” started Soren, “Maybe, perhaps, they don’t know where to go from here. You should take them to the nearest temple. A cleric could guide them back home or otherwise provide them with what they need.”

Cecil put a petulant gaze upon his brother. He let out a sigh and said, “All right you lot. Follow me, and we’ll find a place for you.” He climbed atop the horse with the wagon, and with a snap of the reins, led them off. 

Soren nodded and turned back to the family. He saw that they were once again wrapped in each other’s embrace. He let them be for a while, deciding to take a good look around during their reunion. He meandered off, walking through the extensive estate.

Darius was a rather successful merchant, and as such had a small garden and other amenities expected from a minor noble. Servants dipped their heads in respect to the halfling, and when the space allowed, he returned it with a sweeping bow of his own. His mismatched eyes darted around, taking in the minute details of the abode. Many things had been darned and hastily repaired, only to be covered up so that only those with the keenest gazes with notice. It seemed that the Escoville estate lacked the wealth many of their neighbors held. Not that Soren was one to judge. He quite enjoyed being in the presence of those that had to work at what they achieved. He’d rubbed elbows with the aristocrats in his homeland, and while they could be a pleasant sort, he found their constant condescending manner to be more than wearing on his usually unwavering patience.

No, Soren found that he quite liked the Escovilles, and after finding a suitable room that he and his brother would be more than content to stay in whilst they waited for their contact to come and retrieve Arc, he returned to the happy family at the threshold of the home.

Darius locked his eyes on Soren, and a grateful smile made its way across his face. Soren bowed his head again, hiding his smirk. In truth, he lived for that very appreciation.

“Now, while I would so hate to disrupt such a touching reunion, there is the matter of my payment that we need to discuss,” said Soren. He watched a shadow flicker across Darius’ face, but he gave him a firm nod.

“Aye. You’ve more than earned it. Returning my daughter and my stock, as well as two of my drivers. It was more than I could’ve expected from anyone. However— while I am a reasonably successful man, if you wish to receive coin for your work, it may be a while before I can pay you back. We’ve had a hard few months, and this certainly did not help that, though I wil—”

Soren held up his hand before he hung himself on his words. Darius quieted and cocked his head at the halfling. Soren bestowed him a serene look.

“Master Escoville, I require but one thing, and it is not gold. My brother and I have a task that may keep us in the presence of this town for a long while. Normally, we would see lodgings at a reputable inn and perform the odd job or two whilst we waited, but I was hoping that you could accommodate us both in your lovely home. It would put our minds at ease, and frankly, we do not take up much space nor are we particularly hard to feed. I also am quite talented at evening time entertainment, more so with all of my capabilities at my disposal.”

Darius furrowed his brow, his face scrunching in confusion, “A place to stay? That’s all you want?”

“Aye sir. A lovely place to stay with wondrous company to be had. For a few weeks or so. Then me and my brother shall be on our way.”

Darius stared at Soren, disbelief evident in his face.

“That’s it?”

“That’s all we require for a good deed, good sir. I would say that your thanks would be more than enough, but unfortunately my altruism does have its limits.”

Darius let out a bark of laughter, changing to a full belly-shaking laugh. He wiped his eyes, which were now filled with apt appreciation for the halfling standing before him. Soren extended his hand, a grin on his face, “So, Master Esscoville, do we have a deal?”

Darius clapped the halfling’s hand, “Aye, I think we do!”

Cecil rocked atop the horse, his hands gripped tight upon the reins as he absentmindedly led the procession through the town. Onlookers gave curious glances to the halfling but he continued on, unperturbed by the constant stares.

“Ummm… Mr. Cecil?” asked one of the people from the camp. Cecil looked at them.

“Yeah?”

“Where are we going?”

Ceceil pointed outwards, to a shrine on the outskirts of the town, “There. I saw it when my brother and I first came into town. It’s a shrine to Chauntea. They’ll give you provisions and a place to rest.”

He heard murmuring from the group, and felt a tenseness in the air.

“Somethin’ the matter?” he asked.

“It’s just… some of us aren’t exactly comfortable with it.”

“Why’s that?”

The murmuring continued, but no one spoke up.

“Look, I’m all for letting you all run wild in the town. But, since I brought you back, I feel a bit responsible for you. I figure the shrine’s the best place, seein’ as how I ain’t got a place for you. Trust me, the other temples have less charitable followings. Chauntea’s your best bet.”

The murmuring continued, and he felt a tug at the hem of his coat. He glanced down to the person. He was a young lad, probably in his fifteenth or sixteenth year of life. His face was marred by the grime of the road and the subjugation of his spirit. His brown eyes lacked the luster that a youth his age should have, instead filled with worry and fear. The rags of his clothes were of a non-descript color as they had faded during his imprisonment, and his face was gaunt with exhaustion.

It took much of Cecil’s will to have the sight avoid touching his soul.

“What?”

“What makes you think they’ll even take us?”

“Nothing, aside from what I’ve heard of Chauntea. If this doesn’t work, I’m not really sure what’ll happen. I figured that this was the best course of action for everyone involved.”

His piercing green eyes looked over the entourage, and he noted the etches of despair upon their faces.

They continued moving, with the rickety cart creaking as it trailed behind. Cecil could feel the gazes of the prisoners on his back, but he was used to such scrutiny. Unlike his brother, however, he didn’t enjoy being the center of attention. He’d rather have just sent these people off on their way, but he did feel a sense of responsibility for them. If he got them set up at the temple, then anything they chose to do afterwards would be on them. His conscience would be clear.

They arrived at the temple, several adepts and acolytes looking to the group with inquisitive gazes. Cecil slid from the saddle and walked up to one of them, “Pardon me, but do you happen to have a representative of the faith around? Someone like a senior priest or something?”

The acolyte nodded and retreated into the shrine. Cecil waited, picking at his teeth with his pinky. He could hear the frantic whispers of the people behind him, rising as they waited for the acolyte to return.

An older man garbed in a simple roughspun tunic led the acolyte to Cecil and the prisoners. His face was wrinkled in his brow and around his eyes and held a kindness that allayed the people’s concern. He took count of the people and then spoke quietly to the acolyte, who nodded and returned inside.

“It seems we will have a relatively full table this evening,” said the man, a genial smile stretching across his face. His eyes glittered as he swept his arm towards the door of the temple. The people looked to Cecil. He gave them a curt nod and watched as one by one they shuffled towards the door, pausing only a moment to take in the glow from within.

The lad that had questioned him paused before leaving, looking back at the halfling. Cecil nodded towards him again, but the lad still held his place.

“Mister Cecil,” he started, “You and your brother… you two are a godsend.”

Cecil cocked his head at the lad.

He continued, “I can’t imagine— the time I was there, all I wanted and wished for was home. It was the only thing that kept me going. I knew people at that camp. I watched them waste away, one by one.

“I felt foolish everyday. I was worked like a dog and fed gruel, but still I wished for home.”

The lad’s eyes shone and his voice hitched as his shoulders shook.

“I’m here now, but I may be gettin’ home. Maybe not tonight, or tomorrow, but I can go home. I can’t ever thank you enough for that.”

Cecil shifted, uncomfortable, “You don’t need to.”

The lad wiped his eyes, “How do I get like you? How do I— how do I get strong enough to make sure that never happens again?”

He looked up to the halfling, but the brim of his hat had fallen over his eyes. Cecil let out a small bark of laughter.

“Nothin’ I tell you is gonna help. Your choices already kept you alive day by day. You know what to do.”

The lad looked surprised, but Cecil tilted his head, exposing his green eyes that were filled with empathy. He nodded one final time to the boy and tugged on the reins.

Cecil left the shrine, the horse trotting up the cobbled road towards the eastern edge of the town. The cart rattled behind him.

_Hopefully Soren didn’t kill him with that poison of his._

Cecil glanced over his shoulder, watching the straps that tied down the threadbare tarp that concealed a sleeping Arc. The man was dangerous, and Soren had redosed him several times while he slumbered beneath the tarp, pausing only long enough to shove a berry down the beleaguered man’s throat. He was still bound to the corners of the cart, and Cecil noted that his wrists and ankles had been rubbed raw by the shackles.

Cecil stopped before a nondescript cottage. A singular hooded lantern hung from a cast-iron spike that jutted out from the top of the doorframe. Cecil slid from the saddle and strode up to the door. He knocked on it with the back of his hand, the three taps quiet. The door creaked open, and an aged woman looked out, her almost black eyes falling to the top of Cecil’s hat. A cheshire grin spread across her face.

“Well if it ain’t ol’ Cecil. Where’s your keeper? Don’t tell me he sent you along alone?” she said, making a show of peering around looking for Soren.

Cecil scoffed, crossing his arms across his chest, “I can’t believe the guild sent you. You’re hardly the reliable one. Ain’t they worried you’ll dice away all their coin?”

She locked her gaze on Cecil, who stared at her back, defiant. Her grin broke and she gave him a laugh. She knelt down, pulling him into a hug.

“It’s been too long, Cecil,” she said, dropping her accent. Cecil’s face broke into a smile as he ran his hand across her back. She led him inside.

“Likewise to you, Aelita. It’s good to have another Vaasan in the area. The people here are strange.”

“I know what you mean. I came into town, and with a little flair and a bit of skin, I managed to get this place for thirteen gold pieces for a month. I reckon your brother would be able to plunder this town if given long enough.”

Cecil glanced around. It was a single floor home, but much more ornate than the others Cecil had seen since he had ridden in. There was a lush rug across the hardwood, a stone hearth with a cast iron grate in front of it, and Cecil saw a small alcove that led to a lavish sleeping area. Ornate hardwood furniture was spread about the place. Intricate woodworking was carved into the mantle and readily abundant on the furniture.

“I take it that the furniture isn’t yours?” asked Cecil.

“Came with the place. Normally, this place is rented out to foreign dignitaries and their ilk. Not some ‘urchin’ from Vaasa, and certainly not for such a low price.”

“I’ve known you for the better part of a decade, Aelita. I’m sure something else was implied to score such a deal.”

“I don’t have an inkling of an idea of what you mean,” she retorted, a playful grin on her face. She took the seat by the low-burning fire in the grate and stretched herself out along the length of it. Cecil took a seat across from her, removing his hat and placing it upon the armrest of his chair. He scratched his head, sweeping his shaggy locks. He sat back, his eyes glinting in the firelight.

“Something wrong?”

His gaze fell back onto Aelita, “No.”

“You’ve always been the pensive one. Your brother wears his heart on his sleeve, and while sometimes dissembling is his game, his intent is relatively clear. You, on the other hand, are the dangerous one. Your eyes are always watching, but the gleam in them is always an enigma.”

Cecil blinked and glanced towards the door, to the cart that was left outside.

“Arcturus Lamaroth,” called out Aelita’s voice. She set her gaze on the halfling, “A worthy hunt. Still, it took you long enough, didn’t it.”

“He hid well. No one expected him to fly this far south,” said Cecil, unbuttoning one of his belt pouches. He fished the small signet ring from it within and tossed it to Aelita, who snatched it out of the air. She looked over it, turning it about to take in its details. Even in the failing light, she could clearly make out the heraldry molded into the metal.

“A rare catch indeed. And his axe?”

“ _Stonesbane_ is strapped to the side of the wagon,” said Cecil, sticking his pinky in his ear and scratching. His action opened his coat, revealing to Aelita the handle of his strange weapon.

Her eyes traced the weapon, “Go and wheel him around the back.”

Cecil nodded, rising from his seat. He grabbed his hat from the chair and stepped back outside. He climbed atop the horse and tugged at the reins, ushering the beast and wagon behind the small cottage and stopped once the wagon was nestled behind. Aelita walked down the path behind him and roughly pulled the tarp free from its bindings. Arcturus slumbered beneath, spread-eagle and disheveled. His axe was, as Cecil had stated, tied to the rear of the cart with several bundles of hempen rope.

Aelita looked the man up and down as she walked around the cart. She traced the fine edge of his axe with her fingers, the silvery edge unmarred by burrs and nicks. She nodded to herself as she spoke, but this time she spoke in a rugged dialect.

“ _You didn’t kill him_.”

Cecil replied in the same dialect as her, “ _Should I have?_ ”

Aelita nodded towards Cecil’s shoulder, where his weapon was holstered.

“ _It was five hundred for him, plus another hundred a piece for the ring and axe._ ”

“ _Straight to the point, as always. I daresay I miss dealing with Soren. He is a much better conversationalist than you are._ ”

“ _Me and my brother gotta eat_ ,” he replied. “ _Besides, don’t act like you’re in this solely for the Lamaroths._ ”

She laughed, “ _They are a rather prickly family. You’ll get your coin once Makviel gets here._ ”

Cecil scoffed at the mention of the half-orc, swapping back to the common tongue as he answered, “I figured they wouldn’t send it with you. He’s yours to tend to then, ‘til Mak arrives.”

Aelita narrowed her eyes at Cecil.

“I can’t be carting around a fugitive.”

“Tell Soren to give me some of that devilish elixir of his then. It would be poor for him to start bawling and shouting about when he comes to.”

“I’ll send him by.”

Aelita gave Arcturus another glance over before replacing the tarp upon the wagon. She began securing it down but stopped and retrieved the axe from it before securing the straps. She led Cecil back inside and rested the axe against the fireplace. She replaced herself across the length of the seat, arching her back as she stretched.

“Have you secured your lodgings?” she asked.

“Soren’s on that. A family owes us a favor or two, so I imagine it’ll be a nice place. We won’t have to muck around in your hair.”

“Good. I didn’t tell the owner that I was going to have more guests. Would be a shame for him to up the rate for two half men,” she replied.

Cecil snorted as she chuckled. “I guess I’ll be taking my leave then.” He replaced his hat on his head and readjusted his coat as he made his way to the door.

"How many this time?" asked Aelita softly.

Cecil came to a halt, stopping as he was fixing his collar. He looked back over his shoulder to her, unsurprised. His green eyes held an unfamiliar gleam deep within them as he answered, "Twenty-seven."

She looked taken aback, "What'd the prisoners say?"

He continued fixing his coat, sorting the small items inside of it, “Not much. Don't reckon they thought about it, really." He paused, "One of them said I was a godsend. Asked me how he could be like me.”

Aelita’s eyes widened as she fought back a laugh, “What’d you tell him?”

“Told him to survive. Hopefully he doesn’t take it to heart. I hate to think what'd happen with another one of me runnin’ around. The world’s heinous enough as it is.” He opened the door and a light breeze swept his coat and hat. He stepped out.

“Heinous indeed,” said Aelita as the door shut.

Soren was smirking as he watched Darius and Natasha laugh at his jest. There were numerous dishes set before, and he had taken the choicest part of the roasted pig. He took a sip from his drink, the pewter goblet heavy with wine. They had asked if they should have waited for his brother to return before starting their meal, but Soren had waved them off, knowing that Cecil would much rather prefer grabbing some afters if he found them finished with the meal. He knew that Cecil was making the delivery and wondered how his reticent brother would handle Aelita’s wiles.

His ears perked up as he felt a slight tingle from his earring, and he directed his gaze to the foyer, where he watched the door open.

“Er — sir, the other halfling’s here,” called one of the servants. The jingle of Cecil’s armor heralded his approach, and Soren turned his mismatched eyes to his brother. Cecil removed his hat and looked upon the meal with mild interest.

“I was wondering when you would arrive, dear brother,” called Soren, beckoning Cecil to the seat beside him. “I feared that you were building a temple to drop off the wayward souls.”

Cecil sidled into the chair beside Soren, resting his hat on the corner of the chair, “Just making sure they got settled well. Oh,” he looked to Darius, “I returned your horse to a servant outside. I reckon he’s stabling it away.”

“Thank you,” said Darius, “truly, I cannot begin to repay you for all that you two have done. Please, take this meal as a beginning of my gratitude, and hopefully you find your stay here enjoyable and pleasant.”

Cecil looked to his brother, who nodded at him. “Your hospitality humbles me,” he said in a panned response. Soren nodded enticingly while Cecil grabbed at a nearby set of pork ribs. 

“Would you not like to remove your coat?” asked Natasha, signaling for one of their servants to attend him. “You are more than welcome to make yourself as comfortable as you’d like.”

Cecil batted away the servant’s helping hands. He took a bite of the rib he held before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “I appreciate it, but I’ll pass.” The servant looked to Natasha for guidance.

Soren chuckled, “You’ll have to forgive my brother. He is a staunch ally and excellent travelling companion, but he loathes having anyone handle his equipment but himself.”

Natasha nodded at the servant and dismissed them to retrieve more wine. They set a filled goblet beside Cecil, who nodded his thanks.

“So, Master Darius, will the lovely Marien be joining us for this fine meal?” asked Soren.

Darius dabbed his mouth with a cloth napkin before answering, "I do believe she is still in her bath. And if I'm being honest, I think she needs the time to rest in her room."

"I agree with that sentiment wholeheartedly," replied Soren. "I just felt off not including her in the meal. I didn't wish to be rude."

"Oh heavens no," said Natasha consolingly. "We didn't think you rude. We know you both mean well. We were so concerned about her, it's hard for us to let that feeling go."

"That is a feeling I would suggest you never forget. Misfortune is not bound to strike more than once in a lifetime, but I would shudder to think what would happen if it ever befell your family again," said Soren, punctuating his statement with a drink. 

The sound of ceramic scratching across the table drew his attention, and he saw Cecil pushing his plate away from him. The ribs he had been eating were picked clean, nothing left but some hard pieces of cartilage and white bone. Cecil gulped down the rest of his goblet and rose from his seat.

"Finished already?" Asked Natasha.

"I reckon I'm more weary than I anticipated," replied Cecil, as he grabbed his hat and pushed in his chair.

" _Make sure you visit Aelita. She needs more of the poison to keep Arc under,_ " he said to Soren in the rugged dialect.

Soren replied, " _So they did send her. Interesting. I'll have to inquire about that when I see her._ "

Cecil nodded and looked over to Darius and Natasha, who were watching them with renewed interest. "Thank you for the meal."

"Oh, right! As I said, it is the least I can do. If you'd like, I can have you shown to the room Soren chose for you both."

"Yes. Thank you." Darius waved to one of his servants and they beckoned for Cecil to follow them. They heard the clinking of his armor as it faded away and up the stairs.

“You’ll have to forgive my brother. While he’s a stalwart companion, it seems I inherited all of the courtesy our family had to offer.”

“It’s no bother,” replied Darius. “He’s seems like the right sort. I am curious though, what language is that? I’m familiar with the local tongues, but I didn’t recognize that at all.”

“That is because it’s not a local tongue,” answered Soren with a smirk. “My brother and I hail from Vaasa, and as such we are more comfortable talking to one another in our mother tongue.”

Natasha’s eyes widened, “Vaasa? As in the Bloodstone Lands, Vaasa? As in Zhengyi and Castle Perilous, Vaasa?”

“You are versed in our history! A rare occurrence this far west,” said Soren with an appraising look. “Not many folk are aware of that particular story on this side of the world. Yes, that is the very Vaasa that I speak of.”

Darius looked between Natasha and Soren, confused.

“That is far from here. What brings you this far to Amn?” she asked, an earnest sparkle in her eyes.

“The path of the adventurer,” replied Soren simply. “Ours is a roving life. My brother and I never know where we will find ourselves next, but we do know that we will come across some interesting folk. And quite frankly, I prefer it that way.”

“And we are ever thankful that you and your brother found your way to our town. I don’t know what we would have done if we had lost Marien…”

“Thankfully, you don’t have to dwell on that. I find it’s easier to leave those possibilities behind. She is home. That is what matters.”

“So, how exactly did you find my daughter?” asked Darius, drawing Soren’s attention. “Even some of the best trackers in the village said that it would be hard to locate her.”

Soren smirked, “The note that the bandit left for you and your wife gave a rough location of where to find them. I assumed that they would send an escort or scouting party to insure that you were not amassing a sortie to retrieve your daughter. They did, and after dealing with them, we followed their tracks to the encampment.”

“Still though, two halflings in the wild? I wouldn’t think that so common a sight for them,” said Darius.

“The lands of my childhood have instilled several valuable traits in my brother and me. We are not above trickery, especially in regards to a job. And Cecil maintains a diligence that borders on insanity whilst on a job. It is why he retired so early this evening. He sleeps maybe three to four hours a day while pursuing his quarry.”

Darius’ eyes widened, “Isn’t that dangerous? Wouldn’t he get addled from the exhaustion?”

Soren shook his head, “I’m not sure what grants him the perseverance to maintain such a pace, but in all my years of travel with him, he has never once faltered due to lack of sleep. In fact, in some instances, it seems to sharpen him.”

“Quite remarkable. I would have never guessed…” said Natasha.

“Many do not. It is by far our greatest advantage.”

“And he found Marien?”

“That task fell upon my shoulders. I found your daughter and began my surveillance of the camp. There are things we needed to know before we attempted her rescue. I took the time to help her recuperate as well. She is strong-willed. You mentioned that she has rarely taken to the road?”

“Aye. I’ve brought her on two, maybe three trips in her life before this.”

“Remarkable. Hopefully this endeavor does not wilt her growing spirit.”

Natasha and Darius shared a grim look with each other.

“I have witnessed many things in my travels, but rarely have I found someone to be so grounded in faith in such a bleak situation,” said Soren, waving a servant over to refill his goblet. “It was her idea to free the other prisoners and bring them here.”

“Really?”

“Aye. We had intended to free them, but I had no intention of escorting them. She convinced me otherwise, and I admit, I am impressed by her regard for others.”

Darius and Natasha exchanged looks of pride with each other. Soren let out a large yawn, stretching his arms. The movement let him brush his hand against his earring, and he felt a tingling in his ear.

Soren rose from his seat, arching his back as he stretched. “I admit, I too find myself weary from the road. I have a few more tasks to sort out before night passes us in full. If I find it too late, who should I disturb for entry?”

“I’ll have a guard posted out. He’ll let you back in,” said Darius.

Soren grabbed his goblet and held it aloft as he regarded Darius and Natasha, “Here is to the wonderful meal, and to the many more we will share in the coming days.”

They raised their goblets, “And here is to you and your brother. Truly, the gods brought us great fortune by bringing you here.”

Soren bit back his chuckle, and masked his grin behind his goblet as he drained it. He set it down and with a fleeting look, made his way to the foyer and out to the darkened streets beyond.

Cecil sat against the wall of the bedroom with a myriad of items splayed out before him. His legs stretched out alongside the bundle, and he was working a soft cloth against the finish of his weapon. His hat hung from a chair with his armor slung over the chair back. The bundle beside him held his folded coat. He dipped the cloth into a small vat of oil and dabbed it against the length of the tube. He buffed the oil into the metal until it faded away. He continued his polishing until the whole barrel shone with its golden luster in the candlelight. Placing the cloth down, he reached for a small brush, dipping it in the vat, and then running it up and down the tube. A soft scratching filled the bedroom, with small deposits of ash and soot fished from his weapon. One the brush was thick with the stuff, he wiped it on the cloth, clearing the bristles before dipping it once more into the vat and continuing his scrubbing.

Cecil enjoyed cleaning his weapon, especially after a long hunt. He was a long way from home, and he knew that few smiths would be able to help him should something befall the tool of his trade. He was capable of caring for his weapon, but he never let the thought escape him that he could find himself vulnerable if he became lax. Setting down the brush, he slid the tube back atop of the similarly gilded frame, locking it into place with two small pins. He spun the small revolving cylinder, listening carefully to whizzing sound, listening for any snags or other defects. As usual, the cylinder spun without a hitch and stopped where it was supposed to. Content with his work, Cecil began packing away his tools when a soft knock on the door drew his attention.

His eyes snapped up as he froze. Another knock sounded out. He let out a small huff, reminding himself that he was no longer in the wilds. He rose to his feet and walked to the door, opening it a crack.

Marien, clad in a soft, white robe, waited there. Her black locks were wet from her bath, and Cecil could make out the slight scent of perfume in the air.

“You need somethin’?” 

“Er— sorry, I don’t mean to bother you, Mister Cecil, but do you have a moment?”

Cecil opened the door wider, glancing left and right down the halls before nodding.

“What is it?”

“I just… I know that my parents have given you and your brother a place here and all, and that they’re thankful for what you did, but I just wanted to tell you again that I’m incredibly grateful of what you did for me.”

“It was a —” Cecil paused, wondering. “You’re welcome.”

“I mean it. You both risked a lot for me. Soren gave me the light I needed to keep going and you… you showed such bravery.”

“It’s part of the job,” said Cecil.

Marien knelt down, her brown eyes rimmed with appreciation. She kissed him on the forehead.

Cecil felt uncomfortable, but bowed his head, “Thank you, ma’am. Are you feelin’ better?”

She rose, smoothing out her robe as she replied, “I am. I still feel skittish when I hear things moving around, but I’m hoping with time that will go away.”

Cecil nodded, unsure of what to say.

“You’re not too keen on compliments, are you Cecil?”

“It’s not to say I don’t appreciate them,” said Cecil, scratching his arm, “I’m just not used to ‘em is all.”

“I thought this is what you and your brother did?”

“Aye it is. He’s the one that deals with the people though. I’m usually busying myself with other stuff.”

Marien nodded, and then paused, as she looked over him to the mail hanging from the chair. She spotted his weapon resting on a cloth in front of it with a small toolkit bundled beside it.

“I hope I didn’t interrupt you,” she said. Cecil looked back and saw the focus of her attention. He shook his head.

“Was just finishing up. I was intending to head to sleep afterwards though.”

“Oh okay. Well, if you find yourself needing anything, don’t hesitate to ask me or any of the servants,” said Marien. She paused, and then slid her bead bracelet from her left wrist, “May I give you a gift?”

Cecil hesitated before nodding.

She beckoned for his hand, and Cecil raised it. She slid the bracelet onto his wrist, turning it to find the latch. She tightened it to fight his slightly smaller wrist and adjusted it so it would not chafe against him. Once she was satisfied with the fit, she smiled.

“I know it isn’t much, but I hope you like it. The stones are simple, but I didn’t think you’d enjoy something extravagant.”

Cecil looked down to the bracelet and spun it around his wrist. He met Marien’s gaze and gave her a small smile.

“This is great. Thanks.”

She gave him a polite curtsy, to which he replied with a nod. As she left Cecil shut the door. He dragged over the other chair in the room and set it to be hit by the door should it be opened. Afterwards, he packed away all of his tools and set his weapon in its holster in his coat. He laid back on one of the beds, staring up at the ceiling as he watched the flickering shadows from the candlelight.

_"I'm incredibly grateful for what you did for me."_

Her words echoed in his head as he watched the shadows dance along the ceiling. As the candle burned lower, the flickering became more pronounced, with myriads of figures shifting through the gloom. 

Cecil raised his hand, pointing two fingers at the shapes while folding two others into his palm. He raised his thumb and snapped his wrist. His eyes darted to the bracelet. He lowered it.

He watched the shadows for a while, each a reminder of his past adventures. Eventually his weariness claimed him as the light flickered out.

Soren walked along the cobbled streets, his hands in his pockets and swaying to a tune. Dawn peaked over the horizon with couriers running through the avenues to deliver messages before the day began. He began to whistle, tipping his head as he passed by a patrolling guardsman and turned onto another avenue.

He ambled on, spotting the Escoville household alongside the left of the street. His business had taken him longer than he expected, and he found it would be rude from him to stumble into the Escoville household and disturb everyone in the wee hours of the morning. Aelita had offered to host him for the evening, especially since he provided her with enough of his poison to keep Arc under until she and Makveil delivered him to the north.

Soren approached the Escoville’s home, noting once more than unlike the rest of the street, with their meticulously upkept exteriors and the meadows, the Escovilles had many burrs and blemishes on their home. He smiled. He overheard the guards doling out their posts for the morning and came upon them outside the front door.

“Oh, Master Soren! It is good to see you. Master Darius asked for you to come and see him at your first convenience,” said one of them upon spotting Soren.

“Thank you. I shall meet him, then. Tell me, is he in the dining room?"

The guard nodded, "Should be. He just sent us out to our posts although I think he's expecting company later "

Nodding, Soren bowed his head at the man and wandered off, striding past the doorman with a small pardon. 

He rather enjoyed the way the morning sun crept into the foyer, and as he watched a servant nod at him with a tray in his hand, he strode off to the dining room where all the commotion was coming from.

Darius sat at the head of the table, an empty plate beside him while he was in deep discussion with his wife. Natasha glanced over as Soren crossed into the room, holding her hand up to her husband as she gave him a small smile. Darius followed the attention of her gaze, and his eyes widened with recognition.

"Master Darius. Milady Natasha," he started with slight bows to each of them, "I hope I am not disturbing you."

"Not at all. We were hoping to catch you earlier but when I was told that you hadn't returned, I grew concerned," said Darius. 

"There is little need for concern for my well-being, though I am touched by the sentiment," said Soren. Truly, he did feel a warmth within him over the concern, but his practiced visage and tongue kept the conversation light.

"If you insist…" said Darius with a frown. "Glossing past that, my main reason for wishing to speak with you is because I think I might have found a way to repay you with more than just simple room and board." 

Soren felt pleasantly surprised, "Oh?"

Darius nodded, "An associate of mine by the name of Tu-Tsi has been looking for an exceptional adventurer that would be willing to help him with a task."

"A job then?"

"Aye. Tu-Tsi is a bit… odd, though, and the only reason I'm mentioning it to you is because I think you and your brother fit the bill."

Soren stroked his chin, contemplating the opportunity. On one hand they had just returned and gotten their lodgings but on the other hand, it would take Makveil almost two weeks to get here from Vaasa, and they might not even get their reward in full until they returned Arc and his weapon to the northlands. Having something to do would make the time slide by quicker.

"I'll consider it. I have to discuss it with my brother before I can make any promises."

"Of course, of course. I understand."

"Did this Tu-Tsi mention anything about what the job might entail?" asked Soren, raising his hand to his chin.

"Er— no. As I said, he is a bit of an eccentric, and part of that is his refusal to discuss matters outside of whomever he decides to hire."

"I take it there are a few he has in mind then," said Soren, sitting down beside Darius. 

"I believe so, but if I know Tu-Tsi, which I'm fairly certain I am one of the few that can say they do, then he's driven them off."

Soren twiddled with the small swatch of cloth used as a placemat, rolling the corner of it between his forefinger and thumb.

“If you’d like, I can have one of my servants take you to him,” said Darius. “You can meet with him, just to hear him out.”

Soren continued to fiddle with the cloth, eventually releasing it with a grin, “Certainly. Allow me to get into something less soiled, and I shall be on my way.”

Darius and Natasha nodded as he rose from his seat. Soren tipped his head towards them and wandered off, peeking now again at servants working along the house. He reached their room, raising his hand to knock but pausing as he heard footsteps from down the hall. He glanced over and saw Marien walking towards him.

“Milady Marien! How are you doing this wonderful morning?” he called out, walking to meet her.

She curtsied, smiling at him as she replied, “Well, thank you. And you? I heard that you didn’t return last night.”

“You heard correctly. I found myself in the company of a fine woman, so I elected to stay in her presence for the evening.”

Soren watched her become bashful, his face twisting into a sly smile.

“That is good to hear. I grew worried.”

“You and your family are so considerate,” replied Soren, his smile softening. “Did you need me for something, milady?”

Marien clutched her arm, shifting nervously as she replied, “I told your brother yesterday, but I also wanted to tell you as well. I’m eternally grateful for your help.”

“Why sweet Marien, it was simply our job.”

“Even still, you did more than just find me and rescue me. You gave me hope… when things became too much, you showed me such kindness. I still wonder what would have happened if Cecil hadn’t shown up when he did…”

Soren felt himself become solemn, recalling his ultimatum, but he caught her gaze, “What matters is that it never came to that. You are home now.”

Marien rubbed at her eyes, laughing in spite of her feelings. Soren smiled at her, rubbing her hand soothingly. Marien knelt down and pulled him into a tight embrace, tucking her face into the crook of his neck. Soren rubbed her back consolingly, playing with the small strands of hair that hung down. 

She rose to her feet, giving Soren a final smile before walking down the hall.

“ _You think this’ll be a good job?_ ” asked Cecil as he walked alongside Soren as Darius’ servant led them to Tu-Tsi’s home. 

“ _It can’t be worse than retrieving some girl,_ ” replied Soren.

“Did you say somethin’, sir?” asked the servant.

“Just conversing with my brother. How much farther until we get there?”

"Oh not much more, sir. Just a turn down the street is all."

"Excellent," said Soren.

" _What'd Aelita tell you?_ " said Cecil, his eyes watching the back of the servant's head. 

" _Just that the Lamaroths will be ecstatic to have their son back._ "

" _I reckon they're more excited about the axe than Arc._ "

Soren sniggered, " _Haft made of mithril with platinum and steel, I'd imagine so."_

"We're here, sirs," said the servant. They had arrived at a peculiar looking house. It stood almost three stories but was incredibly narrow, encompassing maybe half the lot it sat in. Each story looked slightly twisted on the base, giving a sort of a cubic look to it. Cecil looked with apprehension, but Soren’s eyes twinkled with amusement.

"Thank you kindly for your guidance," said Soren, flipping a gold coin to the servant. His eyes bulged at the sight of it, and he gave them a low sweeping bow. Cecil nodded at him as he walked back to the mansion. 

"You probably paid him more than he makes in a month," said Cecil.

"And what is wrong with that? Certainly he deserves a just reward for bringing us to our next big adventure."

"You act like I'm gonna say yes," retorted Cecil. 

Soren gave him a mirthful smile, "Why dear brother, whenever have you refused?"

Cecil remained quiet as they walked up the pathway to the door. Soren knocked on the door, and they heard scurrying from within. The door flew open. A disheveled man with milky lenses perched on his nose appeared in the doorway, his head darting left and right before looking down at the two of them.

“Was tha’?” he said his brow scrunching as he regarded the halflings.

“Good morning good sir,” said Soren. “I am Soren, and this is my brother Cecil. A mutual acquaintance of ours informed us that you were searching for capable people to help you with a problem you had.”

“Problem? Is no problem, is task!” said Tu-Tsi, raising his arms enthusiastically. “Who send you? Kent?”

“Darius,” said Cecil, watching Tu-Tsi with mild derision.

“Darius! Bah! He still looking for his girl?”

“Not anymore. We brought her back,” replied Soren.

Tu-Tsi suddenly regarded them with intrigued eyes, “So you did? Is no wonder he sent you.”

Soren and Cecil exchanged glances.

“Yes, yes. Needed good people for this task. People of stern stuff. Come, come in! Make tea and have cake!” Tu-Tsi ushered them inside, closing the door behind them as they crossed the threshold. 

The entryway was oddly clean, with a simple rack of robes off to the left. There was a spiraling staircase directly ahead of the door and several shelves with small miniature statues on them. Tu-Tsi started climbing up the stairs, taking them two at a time with his long legs.

Soren followed, but Cecil stopped before the statues, eyeing the strange assortment of creatures that rested on the shelves. Eventually he walked up in the staircase, catching up to the pair of them on the third floor.

The top floor was a library of sorts, with tall shelves loaded with volumes of thick tomes. A long table wrapped around the staircase, with a small section that swung upwards to allow them to step into the room. Scrolls of parchment were scattered across the table, some unfurled and others stacked in piles.

Tu-Tsi scrambled over to one that was already unfurled and beckoned the brothers over. Soren made his way beside the man, but Cecil was still looking around at the tall stacks of books that surrounded them.

“You’ll have to forgive my brother. He’s a rather curious one,” said Soren. “Tell me, what does this job entail?”

Tu-Tsi gave him a crooked smile, ushering them to his side as he smoothed out the parchment before him. Soren peered around the man to look and saw a finely sketched forge inhabited by gnomes, shrouded in darkness. 

“This is Tirluton. Gnome city deep in caves.”

“Svirfneblin?” asked Cecil, drawing an excited glance from Tu-Tsi.

“You know deep gnomes?”

Both Soren and Cecil nodded, and Tu-Tsi seemed to tremble with excitement.

“I collect their things. Small things, bigs things. Old things!” he said. “I want this.” He pointed at the sketch.

Soren cocked his eyebrow, “The forge?”

“No no no, much too big. I want the forgeheart. Makes the forge breathe and hot.”

“I think he means the bellows,” said Cecil.

Tu-Tsi nodded eagerly, “Yes! Bellows of Thandrus Terracutter! Best smith of deep gnomes.”

Soren gave the man an intrigued smile, but when he looked to Cecil, he noted apprehension in his face.

“What of the gnomes? I’m not thinkin’ they’ll give up their bellows so easily.”

“Gnomes gone. Many ages now. City in ruins.”

“Ruins?” balked Cecil.

“Come now brother, he needed fine adventurers for this,” said Soren.

Tu-Tsi looked between the two brothers, confused, “You not do this?”

“Caves, and ruins for that matter, are dark. And the underground is filled with dangerous creatures. I’m not for stumblin’ around blind while they get a jump on me,” said Cecil.

“Cecil…”

“What? It’s not meant for us. Remember the last time we delved beneath the ground?”

Soren sent Cecil a placating look. He turned back to Tu-Tsi, expecting disappointment, but the man had a pensive look on his face. He snapped his fingers and went scurrying down the staircase, leaving the two bewildered brothers behind. Soren started to speak, but Cecil cut him off.

“Soren, no.”

“It may be dangerous, but that is precisely why we came. Darius already told me that Tu-Tsi would only accept the finest in the trade. It’s a compliment.”

“We’re not dungeoneers,” responded Cecil simply. “It is not in our nature.”

Soren frowned at his brother, clearly disappointed in him. He began to retort when Tu-Tsi returned to the top floor, huffing as he carried a bundle in his hands.

He held a pack of gear, small picks and pitons mixed in with taut ropes and harnesses, “Look through this. Gear here will help. My gift to you!”

Cecil ran through the stuff, his face wry. “I don’t see any lamps or lanterns.”

“No need! These will be better. Not bright in dark places!” said Tu-Tsi as he rifled through the bundle and pulled forth a pair of goggles. He offered them to Cecil, “Go go, try them on!”

Cecil looked to Soren, who nodded eagerly. He grabbed the goggles and slid them over his eyes. He looked around, unimpressed.

“Uh….”

Tu-Tsi clapped his hands together and the curtains in the room closed shut, shrouding them in darkness. Cecil was taken aback, his head darting around.

“They good, yes!” said Tu-Tsi.

Grudgingly, Cecil nodded. “Do you have another pair for my brother?”

Tu-Tsi gave him an appalled look, “These are rare! Not simply lying around!”

Cecil began to protest, but Soren cut him off, “Understandable. We can’t be expected to be given everything,” he said with a pointed look to Cecil. “So everything, including the goggles, will be given to us for the job?”

Tu-Tsi nodded fervently.

“And all we have to do is return the bellows to you?”

Tu-Tsi nodded again.

Soren grinned as he regarded his brother, “Why sir, I do believe you just hired us.”

Cecil sighed.


	3. In the Depths of Tirluton

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Commissioned by the eccentric Tu-Tsi, Soren and Cecil make preparations for their delve into the Underdark. While searching for the ruined city of Tirluton, they come across foes they've never seen befor ein their lives.

Soren stretched, arching his back in the wooden chair. A lit candle almost melted to the stub flickered beside several large tomes. Dusk had fallen many hours ago, but that didn’t stop the halfling from grabbing the most recent of his selections and rising to his feet to return it to the shelf.

The library was rarely open this late, but with a small bit of coin and a fair bit of flattery, Soren had managed to convince the librarian to leave it open for him. He had impressed upon the wiry man the importance of his research, his mismatched eyes glittering as he described the goals of his research. The librarian, moved by such academic passion, felt it wise to let the halfling work through the night, so long as he returned whatever volumes he used to their proper places.

Soren glanced to the large stack behind him. It was the only information on the Underdark that the humble town had. Most were mismatched stories of wayward adventurers and songs sung by bards from faraway lands. It was all very trite and largely useless.

Soren rubbed his eyes. He scanned the spines of several tomes, noting that some were faded from time. He pulled a few from their resting places and flipped open their crinkling pages to reveal an untidy scrawl.

_Handwritten. And in Dwarvish. Lovely._

He closed it and tossed it onto the pile beside the candle. It swayed in its holder, but the flame maintained. He continued to scan the remaining volumes on the shelves, but after deciding he had found the last nugget of information, he sat once more at the table. His eyes went to the arched window seated along the top of the wall, and gauged the moon’s passing. With a stiff crack, he opened the book, and began reading. 

The book was old, that much was evident. The pages were yellowed and thin, some almost translucent with age. The scrawl was untidy in relative terms and shaky. In some places the ink had almost completely worn away, making Soren have to make educated guesses about the words therein. His Dwarvish was shaky, and even with aid, he could only barely make out what the book was about. 

Much of it was knowledge of craft, and identifiers of certain smiths of renown. Sigils adorned some of the pages to act as identifiers for the works of smiths. As far as he could tell, there was nothing about deep gnomes nor their cities. Soren was about to close the tome when a phrase seemed to stand out to him:

_MORNDIN UNDOTH SAMMAN_

_Friends at the Peak of Undoth?_

Soren frowned. He rubbed his eyes and closed the book. As he stacked the books to return them to their places, he paused, thinking about the phrase. He knew that dwarves did not refer to others of their kind as friends, and they considered few outside their race to be friends. They also had an affinity towards other races that worked the earth or otherwise lived in harmony with it.

_MORNDIN UNDOTH._

A peak. Soren figured it was a mountain, and that meant trudging through trails hoping to find one particular peak amongst them. Soren ran his hand through his hair, pausing when he thought about having to redo his braids. He placed the books back onto the shelves, thinking. 

_I'll have to pay a visit to Aelita. Maybe she'll know something about it._

Rubbing his eyes, Soren departed the library, his mind buzzing with the newfound knowledge.

A soft knock woke Soren up. “Just a moment,” he called out as the knock rapped against the wood again. He pulled on a light brown shirt, tugging out his braid as he answered the door.

Marien stood there, her face curled up in a sheepish smile. Soren noted that her hands were tucked behind her, and she bounced on the balls of her feet with excited energy.

“Why good morning, Lady Marien. To what do I owe this fine greeting?” asked Soren as he gave her a respectful bow.

Her smile widened as she answered, “It’s almost midday now. You were sleeping awfully long, but I heard a guard say you turned in awful late last night, and I didn’t wish to bother you.”

“Such courtesy! I am pleased to see that you are growing more comfortable walking about,” replied Soren, putting an impressed smile on his face, “as for disturbing me, if getting woken by such a lovely sight is the extent that you consider bothering me, then bother away, Lady Marien.”

Marien flushed, beaming as she regarded the halfling, “You’re a sweet one,” she seemed confused for a moment before her eyes popped with realization, “Right! I have something for you!”

Curious, Soren said, “A gift? That is unnecessary, madam. Your father is already compensating us for our work.”

Marien pulled forth a tightly rolled piece of parchment, her voice softening as she replied, “It’s for getting Cecil to help all the other people that were trapped. I know he wasn’t keen on escorting a bunch of us through the woods, but you managed to sway him. So it’s more a thanks from them rather than from me…”

Soren nodded, “My brother can be a prickly one indeed, but he is not beyond reason. Helping the people was ultimately the right thing, even if he didn’t wish to admit it at the time.”

“Still, I know you went out of your way to convince him,” said Marien. She offered the scroll to Soren, who took it, his eyes shining with curiosity.

“What is it, if I may ask?” 

“A gift from a suitor,” replied Marien, her face flushing deeper. “He came by earlier for breakfast and offered it to me as a preliminary gift, for permission to begin courting me.”

Soren nodded sagely, “The courting rituals of humans has always been an intriguing thing to me.” He unfurled the scroll, expecting it to be some sort of deed or letter, but was pleasantly surprised to see intricate arcane formulae and writings etched upon it. “Intriguing…”

“He said it was a treasure returned from an expedition of his. A scroll filled with arcane scrawling. He felt that it was an appropriate gift.”

Soren scanned the formulae, seeing that it was indeed imbued with arcane power. He mouthed the words, pausing when he saw that it would activate if he finished the incantation. Repressing a smirk, he heard something in her tone that hinted a bit of sadness and peered over the top of the scroll. “Something amiss, Lady Marien?”

“Huh? Oh no, I’m just thinking of what it would be like to be courted by him.”

“Is he a fair man?”

She shrugged.

“He seems a brave one indeed,” said Soren, rolling up the scroll. “It is obvious that this came from a clearly dangerous endeavor, but I believe he overestimated the value of his gift. For a woman such as yourself, that is.”

Marien’s face flushed.

“Would you mind if I kept it?” asked Soren. “While not arcane, I find it intriguing to say the least.”

“Of course, it’s a gift to you after all,” she replied. 

“And a splendid one at that.” He smiled at her, his beaming face eliciting a smile from her.

“So you and Cecil are leaving?” she asked, her voice becoming sad.

“For a spell. I imagine you heard it from your father?”

“And from your brother. He was packing up some things by the house, and I was curious to know what he was doing.”

“And he told you? You must have made quite the impact on him,” said Soren. “Perhaps I should have him furnish you a gift on our return.”

Marien’s eyes widened, her mouth agape with incredulity. Soren threw her a roguish smile, chuckling as he said, “Perhaps not. I admit, even on his best days he is still a contentious fellow.”

She laughed, and Soren could make out the nervousness mixed within, widening his grin even more. “He seems like a thoughtful one.”

“He is. I was given the charm, guile, and humor of our family, while it seemed he was born with naught but introspection and contemplation. Well… that and an unusual knack for combat. Our days pass in silence when we travel as even though I do so enjoy the sound of my own voice, I much prefer to have a participating audience.”

Marien cocked her head, “But you both will be returning?”

“We have to collect our fee,” replied Soren. “And I imagine that our current contractor will be more than thrilled. I would not wish to waste such an opportunity.”

“I hope you both make it back safely. I don’t know how I’d feel if something were to happen to you,” she leaned in and planted a light kiss on Soren’s forehead before drawing back and bowing. Soren smiled, waving her off as she made to leave.

Soren unfurled the scroll once more, his mismatched eyes scanning the formula carefully before rolling up and tucking it away in his pack.

“Marching through the brambles is always a joy,” said Cecil as he cut through the shrubbery that laid before him.

“The best treasures are not found on the beaten path,” replied Soren. “I thought you had grown weary of the town anyways.”

Cecil shrugged before grasping another handful of foliage and cutting it down with his scimitar. “There’ll be an above-ground marker, I reckon?”

Soren nodded, “It seems our industrious friends traded not only with the dwarves of the region, but the other surface races as well. They built the pillar to better direct their other races who were not familiar with the winding tunnels of the Underdark.”

“Such as ourselves?” asked Cecil in a mocking tone.

“A problem easily remedied. Do you think us incapable of navigating the caverns?”

“I’m certain we can; it’s the desire to do so that I find I’m lacking,” retorted Cecil.

Soren chuckled, “Fret not brother, for once we finish this task I will find you another person that you can spend days trudging through the woods to hunt down. Surely that is more enjoyable than a simple jaunt below ground.”

Cecil laughed. In truth, the only real thing that bothered him about the nature of their hunt was the expedited nature of their departure. Normally, the brothers would spend weeks researching their destination, but Soren had assured him that there was little left in the town they could find to aid them in their expedition. Together, with Aelita’s advice for she knew a bit of what to expect in the underground and the supplies given to them by Tu-Tsi, they had cobbled together a plan of action and appropriate equipment for the task ahead.

Their trek had taken them about a week’s worth of travel away from the town, deep into the eastern forests. Cecil had it on good authority that many of the bandits in the area had fled, so they traveled with light-hearted alertness. As they approached the foothills, however, they kept their minds and eyes sharp, peering through the thickets to try and find the pillar.

As they broke for camp that evening, Cecil brought several coneys that he had caught and skinned then, setting them on a wooden spit over the fire.

“Aelita mentioned that by the time we return, we should have our payment for Arc,” said Soren as he took the roasted coney from the pit.

“That’ll do us some good. She make mention of any other jobs?”

“So industrious!” laughed Soren. “Sometimes, I wonder if mother adopted you from a dwarven family.”

“Would make sense. After dealin’ with you I can only imagine she’d’ve wanted someone less obtrusive,” retorted Cecil. He rotated the coney on the spit, watching the dripping fat splash into the flames.

Soren chuckled, “Only if to add some variety to the family.”

“I think you’ve managed plenty of that.” Cecil smirked before shearing off a small out of meat with a dagger and popping it into his mouth. Nodding, he pulled it from the spit, taking a sizable bite from it and wiping the grease from his face with the back of his hand.

The brothers ate in silence. Soren pulled from his pack the scroll that Marien had given him and read over the incantation.

“Somethin’ from Tu-Tsi?” asked Cecil.

“A gift from Marien,” said Soren, his eyes scanning. “It seems a suitor passed this to her as a preliminary gift. Shame he didn’t realize just how expensive it was.”

“And I reckon she accepted the gift?”

“Not quite. She asked me about it, but her tone belied her true feelings, so I told her it was just an intriguing piece of history. Not something worthy of a lovely lady such as herself.”

Cecil chuckled, “Think it wise to be meddlin’ in their affairs?”

“I think since we trekked through the woods and brought her back that I feel a little responsible for her future,” answered Soren. “I’d rather her find someone that she felt some kind of kinship with.”

Cecil wiped the remaining grease off of his hands before pulling out his strange weapon. With it, he retrieved a tiny kit from his pack and started brushing down the length of the tube.

Soren watched him for a moment before setting out his bedroll and tucking his arms behind his head, “You have first watch.”

“And second. As always,” said Cecil in a bored tone.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Soren and Cecil hiked through the foothills, their eyes searching about. Soren pointed to a figure on the horizon, and together they trudged through the terrain towards it. Eventually, they found themselves within a caldera.

“I reckon that’s the pillar,” said Cecil, pointing to the collapsed stone that laid within. There was a tapered base that was cut from the stone which had eroded and broken. While it laid in many pieces, they could see that, combined, it would have towered over the foothills and forests surrounding it. 

“I believe you are correct,” said Soren. He slid down the side of the caldera, taking care not to stumble on the jutting stone from the side. After reaching the base, he ran his fingers over the surface of it, marveling in the small, intricate runes that had been cut into it.

“This is definitely the svirfneblin language,” said Soren as he heard Cecil slide next to him. “With everything considered, it seems we found the place.”

“Great. How do we get to it?” Cecil peered around, searching the smooth surface of the walls of the caldera but found nothing to indicate an opening.

“Odd. Perhaps the years have sealed the entrance to the underground,” said Soren. “We could try searching for a place to break through.”

Ceicl gave him a shrewd look, “I’m not one for usin’ a pick.”

“Nor am I, but I do believe we have plenty of powder to break through if we find a fragile spot.”

Cecil let out a sigh. He pulled from his pack a small horn sealed with a cap. “All right, tell me where.”

Soren scanned around the caldera while Cecil poured black powder into small squares of cloth before bundling them up and tying them off with some twine. Soren ran his hand across several spots, before nodding to himself and calling to Cecil.

“I think here.”

Cecil eyed the spot, but trusting in his brother’s intuition, pulled a small vial of clear liquid out and dripped some on the side of the rock. With care, he placed four small packs onto the stone, pressing them firmly to stick to the surface.

“All right, set.”

Soren and Cecil took several steps back, ducking beside one of the fallen pieces of the pillar. Closing one eye, Soren took aim and fired a small mote of flames at the bundles, igniting them. An explosion sounded from the stone and chunks of rock flew over the heads of the brothers. They peered over the fallen pillar and grinned to one another as they saw the smoking cavern that was open before them.

“Seems I chose correctly,” said Soren. He adjusted the straps on his pack while Cecil slowly shifted on the goggles that hung from his neck.

“Let’s see how long that holds up,” replied Cecil as his grin diminished.

Soren and Cecil carefully navigated the crawling tunnels. Each step they took sounded like a thunderous roar in the crushing silence of the descending depths. Against Cecil’s warnings, Soren lit the end of his quarterstaff, the piercing light almost alien to the crushing dark depths. 

_You shine like a beacon,_ sounded Cecil’s voice.

Soren flicked his earring, _Let those that would watch see that we are unafraid._

Their connection quieted, and Soren could almost barely make out Cecil’s form against the cavern shadows. Each step took them further down the cavernous path, the harsh light scattering the gloom before them as the darkness behind threatened to swallow them. 

Soren eyed the walls as they traveled, noting the striations on the stone were changing as they continued downwards. He was never one for navigation underground, but Tu-Tsi had procured them a small, brass compass. His readings had informed him that Tirluton, the city of the svirfneblin, would follow a northerly route until they arrived into a sprawling expanse of a city. They would know that they were close once the stone was no longer striated but rather cleverly worked to resemble a solid mass.

A skittering noise drew Soren’s gaze from the walls. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled as the sound multiplied, and Soren reached into a pouch on his belt, scattering several small stones around the ground. Each of them erupted into bright, shining lights, and in sharp relief the creatures were revealed.

Standing around nine feet tall, three strange creatures lurked around the crags and stalagmites. Their heads were avian-like, with bodies made of chitinous-like material. Two long hooks extended from their forelimbs, seemingly razor-sharp and surrounded by red feathers. The revealing light startled them, drawing long shrieks from them. Scattering around the lights, they circled Soren, who had crouched, his glowing quarterstaff braced before him. His eyes searched between the three of them as sweat beaded on his brow.

Humming to himself, Soren waited. A slight tremble ran through him, but he blew it out. One of the creatures skittered around the edge of his vision, presumably to try and find an advantageous position. Soren’s humming loudened and with a flick, he lined the creatures in stark, glowing lights of green, blue, and violet. They emitted loud shirkes of protest, their vulture-like heads darting frantically at the revealing lights. As the creatures swiped at the flames, Soren ducked his head low and placed both hands over his ears.

Explosions sounded out, with sickening, cracking noises emanating from the isolated creature as its chitinous shell was blasted with holes. Chunks of its shell scattered against the cavern walls and floors, and the shrieking crested, accompanied by pained noises. The others darted their heads around, searching through the gloom.

Cecil swung a long, smoking weapon around his shoulder, reaching beneath his coat to draw forth his gilded weapon. Practiced hands maneuvered lever and trigger and another set of explosions sounded out, catching one of the creatures. More pieces of shell scattered through the air, but it let out a howl of rage and barreled towards him. Hooks held high, it gouged at Cecil, digging a deep line in the stone as it screeched against the cavern wall.

Cecil slid forward on his knees, the smooth stone carrying him between the creature’s legs. It stomped, sensing him beneath, but the agile halfling had already jumped back to his feet, his left hand breaking open his weapon and dropping casings to the floor. With practice hands, he snapped more cartridges in and flicked the weapon shut, sighting the beast.

“Gotcha,” he said, squeezing the trigger. A spurt of goo blasted from the creature’s shoulder, taking another chunk of chitin with it. It screeched at him and charged, threatening to bury him under its massive frame. Cecil worked quickly, firing shot after shot until he heard the tell-tale click. More holes were blown into the creature, and its gait became pained and choppy until it stumbled into him, its hooks out wide. Cecil was snagged by the creature’s mass, struggling to move its hooked limb to break free.

The other creature rushed Soren, seeing him vulnerable. Set in his stance, he darted and danced around the deadly hooks, taking care to keep measure of their reach as they swept around him. The back of one caught him on the side, and he felt jagged barbs snag against his mail. The impact put a deep bruise in his side, but Soren knew his armor had turned the barbs from his flesh. Humming in a pained tone, he grasped the quarterstaff with both hands and swung into a particularly rigid part of the creature’s shell. The staff glowed before impact, and with a grotesque cracking noise, it broke through the shell, pouring viscous liquid to the floor. 

With a surprised squawk, the creature hooked beneath Soren’s foot, dropping the halfling to the floor. Soren cracked his head against the stone, dazing him for a moment, but he saw the descending claw before it was too late. He planted his quarterstaff in the pit of his arm, angling it to catch the hook as it swung down. It caught in the crook of the hook, holding it inches from his face. The creature screamed and drew back, swinging again. Soren rolled to avoid the hook, spinning towards the first creature that was limping away from the encounter. Two hooks chased after him, gouging out the stone in his wake.

Crouching, Soren watched the wild swing, turning sharply to his side as they plunged down. He slid himself between them, thrusting the end of his quarterstaff into the creature’s beak and shouted. Pieces of the beak flew onto his face and hair and the creature wrenched back, shaking its head as it twitched in agony. It let out another screech, raising both of its claws before another explosion broke through its face, showering Soren with gore. It lumbered for a moment before falling heavily to the ground.

With a whispered melody, a gust swept away the debris and gore from Soren’s clothes. He rubbed his side, peering over the creature’s body and holding his staff high in the air. Cecil was laying prone atop the other creature, his long-barreled weapon still smoking in his grasp. He stood up, his hand swinging forth a lever near the handle of the weapon, and a cartridge clattered to the ground.

“Still think this was wise?” asked Cecil as he swung the weapon around his shoulder. He dusted off his hat before setting it back upon his head.

“There were three and still we prevailed,” said Soren, looking at their work. “One slipped away, but with the number of wounds it suffered, I think it’s going to crawl into a cubby to lick its wounds.”

Cecil shrugged, stowing away his weapon into his coat before heading on. 

“Did the goggles help?”

“Everything is grey when I have ‘em on. I appreciate the lights though,” replied Cecil. Soren looked around to the glowing pebbles before opening the pouch on his belt, pleased to see he had plenty of handfuls left. The ones upon the ground slowly dimmed before their magic wore out, and the darkness threatened to swallow them once more.

“Let’s take a rest,” offered Soren.

“There’s an alcove ahead that we can duck into during. Only one entrance and it seems safe enough.”

“Lead the way.”

They continued deeper into the caverns. The immense weight of the stone above was a constant thought on Soren’s mind, knowing that a simple shift or quake could upend tonnes of stone upon them and send them to their graves. 

He didn’t dwell on that however. He felt a tingling within him at the prospect of seeing a once forgotten city. Ruins often escaped the minds of those in the present, and one so far beneath the surface was surely a long forgotten relic of the past, waiting to be discovered.

He steadied his breath, trying not to get caught up in his anticipation. It would not do well for them to spiral into some unknown crevasse due to distraction.

 _Something’s up ahead,_ sounded Cecil’s voice. 

Soren peered ahead, holding his quarterstaff higher to try and gleam what his brother saw. His breath caught in his chest.

Spires could be made out in the revealing light, with several worked stone arches between them that had crumbled away in the ages of disrepair. Shaped cavern homes and buildings were nestled between the spires, and it was obvious to Soren that the city had been close-knit. Homes and shops were almost interconnected, save for the larger expanse near the southern side.

It was here that Soren found Cecil, similarly amazed by the architecture of the city. The remains of a large, sprawling forge laid before them, with a grand foundry nestled beside a large, dark-stone anvil. Crumbled crucibles and furnaces laid nearby, but Soren found himself captivated by the sheer power and artistry he could feel. He had read only mild descriptions of what the forge of Thandrus Terracutter had been like, and they didn’t do it justice. He could only imagine what the forge was like at the height of the city’s production.

“That’s odd,” said Cecil, drawing Soren from his contemplation. He was kneeling, running his finger along the ground.

“What is it?”

“These markings don’t seem to match up with the scrawls and markings you showed me before,” observed Cecil. He stood up and slid the goggles from his face to rest on his chest.

Soren walked over as Cecil squinted at the ground, frowning. He spotted the markings his brother spoke of and immediately grew concerned.

The markings seemed runic in nature, but unlike the language of the deep gnomes, these runes were harsh and of a language that Soren was vaguely familiar with.

“I think someone’s gotten here before us,” said Soren. He took a closer look at the structures around them, and now that the wonder of the new discovery was wearing off, he saw devilish claw marks and remnants of burnt and melted stone.

The hairs on his neck prickled once more as he tentatively said, “We should try and find the bellows as quickly as we can and leave, brother.” His tone told Cecil everything, and the halfling replaced the goggles on his eyes and began sifting through the ruins.

They worked together, trying to find the bellows while maintaining as much discretion as they could. It was steady work, with Soren covering the end of his staff with a cover to reduce the light emanated from it. He could make out Cecil moving in the dark as well, but after an hour and a half, they still hadn’t managed to find anything.

His neck still prickling, Soren was growing concerned. He kept his ears perked up, and something on the still air within the caverns drew his attention. It tugged at his sensibilities, otherworldly and alluring. He ignored it for a while but found himself too distracted to continue searching without discerning the source of the presence.

“Cecil,” he whispered out. When he didn’t hear his brother’s reply, he flicked his earring _Cecil?_

No response emanated in his mind, and concerned, Soren scoured around, searching for his brother.

Cecil was following his senses, feeling a wrongness in the air. He was not as versed as his brother in lore, but he possessed a keen sense that Soren could only describe as ‘uncanny insight.’ It guided him and proved sometimes to be almost prescient, giving the halfling an unexpected edge in combat.

It was this sense that guided him now, away from Tirluton, almost like an animal tracking prey. He moved as stealthily as he could, taking care with each step to avoid crags and cracks in the ground. He caught the sounds of combat in the still air, and bolstered by his own confidence, followed the sounds until he arrived upon an extraordinary sight.

A woman of breathtaking beauty with two magnificent feathered wings was engaged with a creature that Cecil could only describe as evil: Twelve feet tall with blood-red skin, the creature wielded a fiery whip and cruel-looking blade. An obscuring aura of darkness enveloped its form, so deep that even the goggles that Tu-Tsi had given him could not penetrate. Massive, bat-like wings extended from its back, flexing as it lumbered around trying to strike the woman.

A nova of fire wreathed the evil creature, extending outwards and forcing the woman away, but Cecil saw it for what it was: a distraction. The fiery whip, obscured by the expanding flames, cracked out, lashing the woman’s side and drawing a line of blood. The blood was stark against her smooth, dark skin, and her cry of pain sent a shiver through Cecil’s spine. Drool dripped from the evil creature’s mouth, sizzling as it fell to the stone floor. The woman drew back, singing as she burst a radiant wave of light that buffeted the demon, but with a defiant roar, the demon sprung forth through the radiance and locked his blade against her mace. The fiery whip cracked out once more, lashing a line of blood upon the woman’s thigh. Her cry once more sent a shiver through Cecil, and he felt a stirring within him to act.

Drawing the long weapon from his back, Cecil peered through the lens of his goggles. While the demon’s form was obscured by the enveloping darkness, he could make an estimation of the creature’s size and anatomy. Cranking the lever by the handle, he sighted the demon, and with a deep, steadying breath, he squeezed the trigger.

A roar sounded out as a small projectile flew through the air and slammed against the creature’s side, punching through its armor and sinking into the flesh beneath. It let out another roar, but Cecil couldn’t sense any pain in its roar. Swiftly, he cranked the lever again, ejecting a cartridge before sighting the beast and squeezing the trigger once more. Again the small projectile pierced through the armor of the demon, but its roar was accompanied by a harsh, grating voice.

“Impudence! What trickery is this that dares to intrude upon my work?!” it growled, searching out towards Cecil. 

He had ducked behind a craggy expanse, his heart thumping in his chest. The voice grated on his mind, beckoning him to come forth and admit his wrongdoing, but Cecil steeled his will, steadying himself and remaining hidden. He heard a resounding crack, and the demonic roar that followed it was tinged with agony. Cecil peered from behind the rock and saw the woman flying around the demon, the head of her mace coated in an ichorous liquid. Her voice sounded out in melody, and her eyes darted out, locking onto Cecil with an inquisitive stare.

The fiery whip wrapped around the woman’s ankle, and the demon swung mightily, slamming the woman into the cavern floor. Cecil saw her wings crumple beneath her, cracking and snapping from the force of the slam. She screamed in pain and pushed herself up, trying to crawl away from the demon, but another lash from the whip came out, cutting her from collarbone to navel.

As the spurt of blood came from the woman, her cry became warbled, and a dissonant melody rang in Cecil’s mind. He rose from his spot, swinging his long-barreled weapon over his shoulder and drawing forth the gilded one from his coat. Anger simmered inside of him, pulled forth from the cruelty of the demon before him. As he approached, the demon’s head snapped to him, its slavering jowls clicked with anticipation.

“A halfling? Come to meet your doom?” he rounded on Cecil, stretching his whip back to lash the halfling.

Cecil stared down the demon, his eyes flickering for but a moment before he snapped the lever back and pulled the trigger.

Soren heard the familiar explosions coming from the caves before him and shook his head, wondering what trouble Cecil had gotten himself into this time. As he broke into the scene however, his eyes went wide.

Cecil was before an elder demon, one that Soren had only read about in dusty books. It was a balor, a ruthless demon from the depths of the Abyss. A true tanar’ri, Soren would never have advised against standing against something so ruthless. He scanned the scene as sweat beaded on his brow, his mismatched eyes locking onto the woman crumpled against the stone wall.

Her skin shone in the light of the fiery whip, and her broken wings and questionable combat attire revealed to Soren that she was a celestial of some sort. Her golden mace was coated with ichorous blood, and her heavy panting and painful grimaces told Soren she was injured.

 _Of all the times to fight for a woman._

Soren let out a deep sigh, grimacing as he saw his brother dodging for his life. With each crack of the whip, deep scars were carved into the stone. In the slim moments that Cecil wasn’t dodging that devilish whip, he was avoiding the cruel-edged blade that threatened to rend him in two. Soren heard Cecil fire at the creature, but he knew that even with his exceptional weapon, that would only prove to annoy the denizen of the Abyss.

Carefully, while the demon was distracted, Soren shuffled his way over to the celestial. He snuffed out the light of his quarterstaff, trusting in the obtrusive firelight to guide him. As he approached, she shifted, grabbing her mace and readying to strike him.

“Hold!” he called in a hoarse whisper, hoping that the tanar’ri wouldn’t catch his voice. “I am a friend.”

“Few are the friends found in the depths,” she replied. Her voice was haggard, and Soren could tell she was in immense pain, but he could not deny the alluring melody within.

“I come to help. I am the brother of the other halfling, the one engaged with the balor,” he looked over her wounds, “the one, I’m presuming, that inflicted such terrible wounds to you.”

She eyed him with suspicion, “And what if you are an agent of the demon, trying to lower my guard in the guise of an ally?”

Soren’s response caught in his throat. Demons were cunning, deceitful creatures, and it made sense that she would be on guard for deception. “I have no answer for that, other than I am not.”

A lashing sound came out, and Cecil was scattered aside. His jacket was aflame, and he tumbled to put it out, rolling to a crouch and staring at the creature. Rumbling laughter came from the demon. 

“Is that all you can muster, pitiful creature?”

“Reckon so,” said Cecil, breaking open his weapon and scattering cartridges to the floor. He snapped it shut with a flick of his hand.

Soren dug through his pack, pulling forth the scroll that Marien had given him. He knew the magic was beyond him, but he would not sit idly by and let his brother die without trying to do something.

He unfurled the scroll, reading the arcane incantation, trying to harmonize with his own magic within. He sang low, trying not to stir the demon’s ire, but the chant caught in his chest as he knew the magic was beyond him. Mustering his will, he pushed through the splitting headache, continuing to sing as the arcane incantation melted away from the parchment.

“That melody…” said the woman, her voice becoming soft as she watched Soren. He could not become distracted, however, and continued singing, finishing the finals lines of the incantation. There was a shimmering around the balor, and suddenly, the darkness that had once enveloped him dropped, dispelled away. Its armor lost the otherworldly sheen, and Cecil locked onto the creature.

Six explosions sounded out, followed by a clicking and snapping. Six more broke the still air, and the balor roared, this time agony accompanied with rage.

“Where did you hear that melody?” said the woman, slowly rising to her feet. More explosions and cracks of the wipe sounded through the caverns.

“I followed it here,” said Soren, nursing his head. His body shook, but as he saw all the lines of the scroll gone, as well as the ichorous blood leaking from the many wounds on the balor, he gave a grim smile. “I heard it down the cave, and it led me to this battle.”

The woman observed him, seeming to answer before a large crack and slam threw Cecil into the stone wall.

“ _Enough!_ I grow tired of your tricks!” the balor roared, spewing flames and smoke from within itself, covering them all in thick, acrid smog.

Cecil slumped against the wall. _That one hurt…_

He pushed against it, trying to use it as a support to rise back up to his feet. He felt angry pain and knew that the fine mithril coat beneath his jacket had likely left deep cuts in his back. With shaking hands, he cracked open his weapon while peering through the smog. Thick as it was, he could still make out the darkened form of the balor. Snapping his weapon shut, he raised his weapon and tried to sight the creature through the smog.

A crack sounded out, and he wondered why the smog glowed before realizing too late. 

The tip of the whip lashed forward, and Cecil threw his head back, trying to outpace it’s reach. It cracked against the goggles, shattering the glass and driving a shard of it deep into his eye. The force threw him back once more, cracking his head against the stone, and searing pain drove through him, blood pouring from his eye socket.

He squinted, but between the smoke and blood, he couldn’t make out the demon. He squinted harder, eliciting more pain from his eyes. Steps approached him, and he sighed. He reached up to his earring, flicking it.

_I reckon this is it._

Soren gazed over to his brother, seeing him slumped against the wall. He dug through his pack, but none of the tricks he had left, nor the magic that remained within him seemed enough in the face of the monstrous form of the balor. Resigned, he picked up his quarterstaff, lighting it and chanting softly.

“What are you doing?” asked the woman.

“Helping my brother,” replied Soren.

“That’s foolish! You can’t expect to stand against Mal’guth with just a stick!”

He grinned, “It’s an adamantine stick.”

She looked incredulous. “Why? Why risk this?”

“Because I know he’d do the same for me,” said Soren, mustering his courage to walk towards the demon. He heard singing, strange harmonic melodies that permeated his soul. He stopped, turning to the angel, who had risen on shaky legs. She sang, her gaze fixed upon the demon, with soft tones in a otherworldly language that made Soren’s heart sing. She beckoned for him, and Soren felt a tug within him. He started humming, slowly harmonizing with her. 

He heard the demon’s laughter, but was so caught up in the melody, that he didn’t catch what the creature said. He focused solely on that inspiring song, feeling the energy welling within him and through him.

Cecil heard the singing, cocking his head towards the melody.

“Foolish creatures. They do not recognize their own demise! In time, all shall see,” the balor took several steps away from the apparently defeated Cecil, leaving him against the wall.

The music sounded nice to Cecil. It was definitely better to hear compared to the mocking laughs of the balor. He leaned against the wall, the pain in his head slowly abating. He tilted his head back, shutting his left eye as he felt it was pointless for his right.

_Why are you here, little one?_

Cecil cocked his head, peering around. The voice was clear in his head, stern and sharp, but seemed to be in tune with the song. _Guess I got hit a little harder than I thought._

_True, but not enough for this. I ask again: why are you here?_

Cecil twitched his head, looking towards his brother and the woman, “We were searchin’ for somethin’.”

_But for combat? With a tanar’ri demon?_

“Is that what that is? I just thought it looked unnatural. Like it doesn’t belong in this world.”

_Most would run._

“And I chose to fight,” Cecil coughed, trying to slide up. He staggered and slid down to one knee, the jarring impact sending pain through his eye.

_Do you think yourself foolish, little one?_

“I think myself blind,” retorted Cecil.

_And if you could see?_

Wiping the blood from his cheek, he said, “Then I would still fight.” He staggered to his feet, clenching his teeth against the pain. Soren was singing, the woman as well, and he recognized the energy emanating from his brother. He used it to mend his wounds, and Cecil knew all he had to do was listen.

_Why?_

Cecil pondered the question. What had stirred him, had launched him from safety before this mighty creature. Even as he staggered before it, he felt no fear, only a yearning, one he always felt when he was on a job.

“The hunt.”

The woman’s song reached a crescendo, her voice echoing like the sweetest songbirds in all the realms. Soren’s voice joined hers, matching her fervor, and Cecil watched his brother become shrouded in radiant light. His eyes opened, shining from within as he sung, and the balor was buffeted for a moment.

_Then hunt well._

Cecil felt a surging in his eye and pulled the ruined goggles from his face down to his neck. Tingling and surging, he saw a haze of silverish light gleam from his eye. He felt as though he was lying beneath a bed of stars with the moonlight shining down upon him. Suddenly, so suddenly, he could see.

He could more than see. The smog was nothing for this moonlit vision he held. The darkness abated, and the creatures formed seemed outlined in pinpricks of starlight. He pulled the lever back on his weapon, sighting the creature with ease, before firing.

He saw the truth of his brother’s song then, the bolstering of light that shone from him as he fired. It seemed as though small stars rocketed towards the balor, and unlike before, each one that struck distorted its form. A roar of pure agony and hate sounded from the demon, and he rounded on Cecil.

Defiantly, it charged at Cecil, each step shaking the ground. Cecil stored away his weapon, instead reaching within the side of his coat. He pulled out a small, compact weapon, the mouth of it shaped into the likeness of a dragon’s maw. From the side, he grabbed a small metal file and struck it against the weapon, scratching and drawing sparks. On his third strike, he heard the telltale sound of fire catching and shut his eyes as the explosion went off.

A roaring explosion, louder than anything that the dark caverns had heard in ages, echoed through the cave. A metal ball the size of a pit of a peach fired out, accompanied by a gout of flame. Behind that however, bolstered by the song of Soren and the woman, came a shining beam of moonlight, enveloping the demon as the ball crashed through it, breaking cartilage and shattering bone. Cecil dared to open his eyes and saw the balor standing before him with a confounded look upon its face. There was a gaping hole in its chest, and from it, fires burned around the edge.

With surprise unfamiliar for a creature of its might, the balor stared down the halfling with impunity as smoke billowed from its wounds.

“ _One hundred years, puny halfling! Await my return in one hundred years!_ ”

Cecil, with his hand still smoking and his shoulder smarting, just scoffed as the balor was consumed by the flames, leaving naught behind but its blade.

Soren thought he had gone deaf, so sudden was the silence. He watched his brother as he tucked away the small weapon and reached down for the blade. With careful hands, Soren rubbed his throat, which felt as though he’d swallowed shattered glass. He heard soft footsteps from beside him, and the woman had reached him.

She stood almost seven feet tall, and her dark skin was marred with burns and cuts from the whip and sword. Her wings hung crooked on her back and each step she took was punctuated with a grimace of pain.

“He is banished…” she said, unsure if she even believed the words herself.

Soren shivered as he heard her soft voice break the silence. He knew what she meant; a demon defeated in the mortal realm was not truly slain, but rather banished to their plane for one hundred years, unless summoned back by a fool-hardy sorcerer.

Soren stepped towards his brother, who had lifted the blade onto his shoulder and took a test swing with it. Impressed by the balance, he met his brother’s gaze.

Soren stopped, gasping. “Your eye.”

“Aye I know. Got torn out when he lashed the goggles,” said Cecil, lifting the goggles with his free hand.

“No, there’s—”

“The sight of Eilistraee…” said the woman, her voice filled with surprise.

Cecil looked confused until Soren approached him and held a dagger so he could see his reflection.

In the socket of his right eye was what looked to be a pale white orb, shaped in the form of an eye.

Cecil looked dumbfounded, and Soren looked to the woman.

“Eilistraee?”

“Goddess of those that would forsake the confines of the corrupting Underdark to seek freedom beneath the moon and stars,” said the woman. “It was she who guided me here, to find and banish the tanar’ri Mal’guth.”

“And may I ask who you are?” asked Soren. She took measure of him, and he saw deep respect in her deep amber eyes.

“I am Ayaehl, deva of Eilistraee. Who are you?”

Standing to his full height while moving beside Cecil, he replied, “I am Soren. This is Cecil.”

Cecil cocked his head up, smiling grimly in spite of the situation, “We’re the Orthys Brothers.”

Cecil and Soren stood before beautiful Ayaehl as she softly chanted. She ran her hands over her wounds and soft moonlight washed over them, knitting them shut. Her wings straightened out, no longer looking crumpled and weak, but instead stretching to gracious lengths.

Cecil ran his hand over his eye, and winced, with the small cuts around the socket still paining him. He glanced at the dagger, unsure and wary of what the light nestled within the socket meant. 

“Mistress Ayaehl,” started Soren, drawing the woman’s gaze to him. “What did you mean by the sight of Eilistraee?”

She fixed her gaze upon Cecil, and he froze for a moment: In the moonlit vision, she had an uncanny resemblance to Marien.

She knelt down to better see Cecil’s eyes, and he initially averted his gaze. She was only garbed in a simple skirt of cloth, with cloth that wrapped around her neck and chest to cover her.

“It is true, she gave you the sight,” she said, awe in her melodious voice. Cecil met her gaze and softened in the gaze of her amber eyes. 

“What is that?” asked Cecil.

“A blessing of Eilistraee. Given to her most earnest hunters,” she explained. “It allows them to see and track even in the most obscuring of conditions.”

Cecil blinked, the action causing him to wince. 

“Come, let me help you with that,” said Ayaehl. With soft touches, she chanted, running the tips of her fingers along the wounds on his face. Cecil trembled, the knitting skin feeling odd to the halfling. He felt a strange sensation as though his eye was restored, and the light dimmed. He placed his hand to his eye and felt that it had been returned.

“That looks better,” said Ayaehl, smiling.

“I uh… thanks,” said Cecil, averting his gaze. He drew the dagger and looked into it, marveling. His left eye was still the normal green but his right eye held a pale iris, seemingly striated and speckled as though his pupil had been crafted from stars circling the moon.

“Seems fitting. I have the dark eye and now you have the bright one,” said Soren, drawing Cecil’s attention. 

“I can still see like I could before,” said Cecil, peering through the darkness.

“Eilistraee has blessed you this day,” commented Ayaehl. “A worthy gift for the banisher of Mal’guth.” She looked over the two brothers, a smile spreading over her face, “I have never had the pleasure of working with your kind, but you have made a marvelous impression upon me.”

Soren went into a low, sweeping bow while Cecil tried to tip his hat, only to realize he had left it against the wall when he fell. 

As he went to retrieve it, Soren said, “Ayaehl, a balor is an uncommon creature, even on its own plane. Why would such a creature be here?”

Her face darkened, “That is why I was drawn here. I felt emanations of corruption from within and sought to find its source. But what brought you to the clutches of the Underdark?”

“We were tasked with finding an older relic of a bygone era,” said Soren, filling his voice with a sense of importance.

Ayaehl cocked her head, “In the depths of the Underdark? That seems a folly.”

“You’re not the only one who thinks so,” said Cecil, having retrieved his hat and dusting it. He also carried the balor’s sword on his shoulder, which Ayaehl eyed with distaste.

“You plan to carry that accursed weapon?”

“I plan to find a buyer for it, yeah,” replied Cecil.

“It is evil. I can sense its emanations from here.”

Cecil looked at the blade on his shoulder and then looked to Soren.

“My brother means no offense, dearest Ayaehl. We are just humble adventurers, however, and sometimes we must sell the relics we come across because we must eat.”

She seemed disturbed by the sentiment, but otherwise stayed quiet.

“If you could, we have traveled a long way. You seem to be more versed with traversing the underground. We will let you take the blade and destroy it, ridding the world of its evil, if you can take us back to the surface.”

Cecil looked puzzled, but believing his brother had finally seen the perils of the Underdark and wished to leave, held out the blade for Ayaehl.

She looked curiously between the pair of them, “But what of food for you?”

“I prefer your fine company over the potentials of a sumptuous meal,” replied Soren.

She laughed, a musical laugh, before nodding and saying, “I see. Very well, I accept your offer, Soren Orthys.”

She chanted, the sword floating from Cecil’s grasp to hover before her. Her chanting increased and small, glowing cracks seeped through the metal, and it shattered in radiant light before the pieces melted away and disappeared.

“Another cursed item gone from this world,” she said, opening her eyes after the light faded.

“And another adventure added to our ledger of tales,” said Soren with a roguish grin.

Ayaehl gave the brothers a once over before stretching her wings out and saying, “Well come then, Brothers Orthys. I shall take you home.”

They wandered through a much shorter cavern system, one that had sheer sides now and again. Ayaehl would carry them, her gracious form effortlessly carrying the brothers as her wings easily glided them through the air. The cool air of the night flowed over their faces as they broke the surface, and Ayaehl landed upon the ground, dropping the brothers down carefully.

Soren looked around, seeing they were nestled in the foothills a few days' travel from the woods. They were roughly four days from the village.

Cecil was squinting at the starlit foothills, holding his hand to his eye as he swayed.

“Something amiss?” asked Soren.

“It is disorienting,” said Cecil, cupping his hand over his eye.

“The sight is continuous,” said Ayaehl, watching Cecil with concern. She considered for a moment, before whispering and seemingly pulling starlight out of the night air and condensing it into a cloth. “Wrap this around your eye. It’ll be better than cupping your eye.”

Cecil took his hat off and took the cloth, wrapping it around his eye and tying it atop his head so that when he set his hat back on, it would conceal the tie. “Thank you kindly.”

“Are you able to see?”

Cecil nodded, “It is muted, like a normal field of stars, but I imagine that will take some getting used to.”

“I’m sorry that I couldn’t restore the original function of your eye,” said Ayaehl. “I thought it unwise to try and undo the magic of Eilistraee.”

“Understandable,” said Soren.

“Shame we came out with nothing for our efforts,” remarked Cecil.

“Company of a lovely woman, with a relic shaped from the stars above. I hardly call that nothing,” retorted Soren.

“Still, I don’t think Tu-Tsi would appreciate receiving nothing for the loss of his goggles.”

Soren gave him a roguish grin, before pulling from his pack a set of finely made bellows, wrought from black dragon leather and rich, dark wood. “I think these will more than suffice.”

Cecil looked nonplussed, “Where’d you manage to find those?”

“I spent more than a few moments sifting through the ruins,” said Soren. “Why else do you think it took me so long to reach you?”

Ayaehl was watching the brothers confused, “Is that what you risked life and limb for? A simple craftsman’s tool?”

Soren and Cecil both turned to her, nodding. 

“It makes us sound a bit mad when you put it like that,” said Soren.

“You are a bit mad,” said Cecil. He ran his hand over the cloth, letting out a sigh.

Ayaehl let out a soft laugh, her curiosity more than piqued by the strange brothers. “It seems Eilistraee picked two odd champions this day.”

Soren looked appreciative, while Cecil looked stricken.

“Soren, master adventurer and champion of Eilistraee,” he tested. “Even if it’s a bit of a mouthful, I admit, I like the sound of that.”

Cecil said nothing, instead peering at the sky and opting to continue their trek back towards the town before they broke for camp.

Ayaehl watched him walking away, concerned, “Is something amiss?”

“My brother has a… lack of understanding when it comes to matters of the divine,” explained Soren. “It’s coupled with his bullheadedness.”

He cocked his head towards her, “I do believe that our deal was to take us to the surface, but I find myself curious of you, Ayaehl. Would you wish to accompany us back to the town that hired us, if only to share in our experiences and company?”

The deva laughed, “There are many more tasks that Eilistraee needs done.”

“But you are also weary, if my estimation is correct. Why not share a single night with us, if only to sate your curiosity of the two brothers that saved you?”

She laughed again, her amber eyes trailing to the deparing form of Cecil before landing upon Soren, his smile wide. “Very well. Lead the way, Soren Orthys.”

They traveled together for two days, the brothers learning much of Eilistraee from Ayaehl during their trek. She was the goddess of beauty, song, dance, which tickled Soren as well as moonlight, swordwork and hunting which Cecil found more to his liking. What intrigued the brothers even more is that she was of the drow pantheon.

“I’ve never even met a drow in my life, and you’re to say that one of their goddesses has vested interest in us?” noted Soren.

Cecil, who was cleaning his weapons, shook his head.

Ayaehl gave a smile to the two brothers, “She is the protector of those of drow heritage that longed for the caress of moonlight instead of the lightless depths of the Underdark. Many of her people have found their way to the surface, and those that wish to find peace amongst the constant conflict with other races, she leads them and watches over them.”

“She must not be very popular with the other members of her pantheon, then,” said Soren.

Ayaehl gave a solemn shake of her head as response, “She is not. But the good she drives for is felt every day, and one day I believe that those that call the surface their home will find a place for the drow that want more from life than the constant cold stone.”

Soren, who had been traveling most of his adult life, understood the sentiment completely. Even Cecil could understand the need for something more than the life born into.

Ayaehl spent a night in quiet meditation as the brothers ate and approached them in the dying firelight.

“I’m afraid that this is where we part ways, Brothers Orthys,” she said with a melancholic voice. Her flawless features, which she had healed over the course of the three days she had traveled with them, were truly sad. “Eilistraee calls again, and I am needed.”

Soren and Cecil rose before the deva, both of them bowing respectfully. She had used her magic to restore both of them to full vigor, but even her mighty divine magic could do little to restore the fullness of Cecil’s eye.

“Thank you for your gifts and knowledge,” said Soren. “You have given me more to appreciate in the few days in our company than the past three years combined.”

She smiled and kissed him upon his brow, drawing a smile from him.

Cecil removed the cloth from his eye, staring at the woman as he thought of what to say. “Thank you,” was all he could muster before bowing his head.

“You’re conflicted, and that is okay. A gift from Eilistraee is not servitude,” said Ayaehl, kneeling down to Cecil. “She blessed you because she could see the truth in your heart. Even if you cannot.”

Cecil was lost for words, and Ayaehl kissed him upon the brow as well before rising up and stretching out her wings, “Until we meet again, Soren and Cecil.”

The brother’s both bowed deeply as she gracefully took to the sky, her form disappearing in the moonlight.

“See? Not all gods are bad,” said Soren.

“Yeah, just had to find a goddess of the most hated and feared race in the world to prove it,” replied Cecil in a petulant tone. 

Soren shook his head at his brother’s pessimism, returning to the fire as he laid down.

He did note, however, that Cecil spent much of his time staring at the moon before falling to sleep.

The brothers found themselves in the town a few days after Ayaehl’s departure. Refreshed by her magic, and immensely pleased, they headed to Tu-Tsi’s odd tower home and knocked upon the door.

After a few moments of waiting, the door sprang open, with Tu-Tsi peering down, his eyes wide upon seeing the brothers.

“Did you…” he started as Soren pulled forth the bellows. With a jubilant cheer, Tu-Tsi held out his hands expectantly, caressing and hugging the bellows once Soren passed them over to him.

“So, about our reward…” said Cecil.

“Brother, allow him a moment to celebrate,” chided Soren. Tu-Tsi locked onto Cecil before eagerly nodding and ushering them inside his home.

He took them to his second floor, where he rifled through many of his knick-knacks before settling on two of them and setting them before him.

As he settled before them, Cecil narrowed his eyes, raising the cloth that covered his right.

“Who are you?” he asked, a suspicious edge to his voice.

Tu-Tsi froze, his eyes darting between the two brothers, “Tu-Tsi.”

“Cecil,” started Soren, but he saw his eyes fixed upon the man, his eyes darting up and down as he watched him. Soren followed suit, searching for whatever his brother was seeing.

He saw it in the distorted shadow from the sunlight through the window.

“You’re… a svirfneblin,” said Soren after a tense moment. Tu-Tsi looked shocked, drumming his fingers together. Soren glanced around the room, noting now that several of Tu-Tsi’s collected relics all held similar runes compared to the ones they saw on the pillar.

“Is no trick!” said Tu-Tsi, looking scared.

“You wished for your people’s relics?” asked Soren.

Eagerly, he nodded, his eyes going wide. With a whisper, he dropped the glamour magic, revealing himself to be a short deep gnome. He had stark white hair on his head, and his eyes seemed milky but otherwise he looked very similar to the gnomes of the surface world.

“None wish to go to caves. All alone, just wanted memories of families,” explained Tu-Tsi, a sadness creeping into his voice. 

Cecil dropped his harsh stare, slowly sliding the cloth back over his right eye.

“Why hide?”

“Is not safe! People think me evil, like drow! Harass and bother, when I seek peace…”

Soren and Cecil shared a glance, thinking back to Ayaehl.

With a sigh and smirk, Soren said, “Do not fret, kind Tu-Tsi. We mean no harm, but deception is something that always sets us on edge. We understand.”

Cecil gave a nod, his eyes still watching the gnome.

Tu-Tsi nodded eagerly before handing them the knick-knacks he found in his trove.

“Received long ago, I did. From folk like yourselves,” he said, pushing them forward to the brothers. “Never returned, but still I know. Keep, yes?”

Soren held his up, a necklace composed of several beads of precious stones. 

“Beads have magic!” said Tu-Tsi, pointing to several beads of black pearl mixed with the bloodstone and citrine. “Simply grasp and chant. Resonate!”

Cecil raised his eyebrow at his, a statue of a bronze griffon.

“This animates! Comes alive and helps!” said Tu-Tsi. “With it, you’ll have companion in your pocket!”

Cecil looked to his brother, hearing his voice.

_ He speaks the truth. _

“Thank you for such fine gifts,” said Soren, placing the necklace around his neck. “I expected gold or platinum, but these prove to be much more appreciated.” He gave a low bow, mirrored by his brother. 

Tu-Tsi clapped his hands, nodding eagerly as he regarded the bellows.

Soren and Cecil kindly refused his offer for tea, and together, they departed the strange tower with only a momentary glance.

“Glad to be done with that,” said Cecil.

“First the drow goddess, and now a deep gnome,” said Soren. He gave his brother a shifty look, “that eye of yours is going to be a boon indeed.”

Cecil shook his head, laughing as they returned back to the Escoville home.

Tu-Tsi watched the brothers leave through the topmost window of his home. Truly, he hated parting with such valuable gifts, but when his disguise was compromised, he hoped that the gifts would help alleviate their suspicions.

He turned back to the table where the bellows sat and approached them reverently. The decades of dust that had settled onto them hadn’t been cleared away, and with a small brush, Tu-Tsi began to clean them. Once the dust and dirt was cleared, he drew away, an evil smile on his face.

Carved into the wood, shining like black beacons, were intricately crafted runes.

_ Mother of the pale night… soon you shall be free. _


End file.
